Four Horses by David Whyte

 

Blind Faith (M. A. Reilly, West Milford NJ)

FOUR HORSES

          —By David Whyte

On Thursday 

the farmer

put four horses

into the cut hay-field

next to the house.

Since then the days

have been filled 

with the

sheen of their

brown hides

racing the fence edge.

Since then I see

their curved necks

through the 

kitchen window;

sailing like swans

past the pale field.

Each morning

their hooves fill my

open door

with an urgency

for something

just beyond my grasp

and I spend my whole

day in an idiot joy,

writing, gardening,

and looking

for it

under every 

upturned stone.

I find myself

wanting to do

something 

courageous,

wide ranging

slightly stupid 

and lovely.

I find myself

wanting to walk up

and thank

the farmer for those

dark brown horses 

and see him stand

back laughing in his

grizzled and

denim wonder 

at my

innocence.

And I find myself

wanting to ride

into the last hours

of this summer,

bareback and

happy as the hooves

of the days

that drum toward me.

I hear the whinny of

their fenced 

and abandoned

freedom

and feel happy

today

in the field

of my own making,

writing non-stop,

my head held high

ranging the boundaries

of a birthright

exuberance.