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 . . .