All Beggars Would Ride

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for Jane Hirshfield

Last night the beautiful horses of my boyhood galloped again

into my dream.  I especially love the sleek black mare with the white star between her eyes,

and remember her grace as she’d trot across the pasture when I stretched my arm over the fence –

corn husks, an apple core, such small things, such large joy. I’ve often wished I had a heart like that.

Ah, says my mother-in-law, if wishes were horses . . .