4.27

the silver dappled mare

stands ever in the grove

watching, waiting, head

turned back over a pale

shoulder as we pass

on the road.

so regular an observer

we wonder if it is a statue,

until the neck shudders

away some insect then turns

to nod down.

why would she stand so there

day after day, shackled or

resting, at ease in the copse

of trees out of the Na’alehu

sun.

home. memory. familiarity.

a calm of presence, as if

the world’s passing by

is only an illusion from

the vantage of her

grove of reality.

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