Two Horses in a Field in Mid-December

These strands of twisting wires keeping horses there
and me here is called a fence. Tears form and tears
fall from above and we call it rain. If it freezes,
as it’s trying to do now, we name it snow, even if sun
flares from the east as it does in sparkly postcards
from Colorado. And this patch of dead grass
hurtling through time and tomorrow is part of a blue
sphere we call earth. We rarely send earth thank-you notes.
It is easier to worry about spiced tea and poinsettias
and our cousin’s accident and winter solstice
and a late mortgage payment and future orgasms
and where in the valley one can buy decent focaccia.
My left hand is cold, my right hand colder,
and I wonder how long can I lean on this fence watching
it snow? The wet stuff collects on the back of a white
horse, a matching blanket. It falls too on the back
of this black mare but immediately melts.
This is how mystery and beauty collude, how weather,
even the weakest trickle of sun, fills me
with questions. Tonight I will look at the sky and link
winking stars into creatures and call it astronomy.