This full moon seems huge and bright
in the low light of dawn
as I walk across the lawn,
along the gravel of the driveway
and then turn through the heavy dew
in the fescue that leads
past the peaches to the barn.
The chocolate gelding
is lying in the sand of the round pen,
alert but still
with his legs gathered underneath him.
I am expecting Journey to rear up
in a horse’s awkward rising
at any time
but he doesn’t move
except to turn his head slightly,
watch me as I climb over the railing.
This animal could kill me
with a single kick
but he doesn’t even twitch
as I kneel beside him,
lightly stroke the short hair
beneath his mane,
rub along his neck,
move the forelock from across his eye.
I barely dare to breath
for fear of losing this moment
as he rests his nose against my knee;
I could live another sixty years
and never have this again.
When we come to these times
of such powerful vulnerability,
the touch of trust
must run softly and smoothly along the grain,
else we never gain such ground again.