On the back of a weary Appaloosa
shuffling sand through tunnels
of prickly pear and coyote bush,
we walked a long way out into the desert night.
I whispered again to his lowered head:
You're safe with me.
My legs wrapped against his sides
and my hand stretched the length of his neck,
gentling our connection.
Whose fear was I wanting to soothe?
Whose shiver still at the sound
of a sudden crack in the brush?
My need to bring him safely home
was everything.
Next morning,
sitting in sun by the open window,
I suddenly folded forward; my elbows lowered to my knees;
with him again.
Too many years he struggled,
bent in tripod, grasping for each fleeting breath.
Nothing could soothe him then.
Folded together now, he spoke
as surely as he had kept his silence
on our walk through the desert night.
He never found it easy to use words.
You can leave me now, he said gently.
It's done. I'm safely home.
Go out now; find a new path
beyond thickets and chamise,
beyond bridle and the night.
It will be your own.
Karen MerriamOctober, 2020
