The Farrier

She was fifteen; you, thirty-two.
I wonder, did she blossom
in your hands?

Some men don’t understand flowers
bloom best unforced.
You wouldn’t. You never

let your colts run barefoot,
preferred to shape red-hot iron
to your own specifications.

You knew how to use a twitch
to make a filly stand quiet,
quiver with anticipation

at an opening gate, or prance
under light fingers
plucking reins.

It wasn’t her time
to flower. Spring came
early that year.

 

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