• Two Horses in a Field in Mid-December

    Lance Larsen

    Winter 2022

    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.

    Lance Larsen’s fifth poetry collection, What the Body Knows, appeared in 2018 with University of Tampa Press. A recipient of an NEA fellowship, he teaches at Brigham Young University.

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