by Mary Brunini McArdle
For years I haven’t even seen a saddle,
But last night I dreamt of horses:
The pewter urn upon my bedside table
Began to glow, and from behind it
Stepped a stallion.
Black as night he was, and finely shaped.
And floating in the air above
More horses, dappled gray and white,
Single-footed, gently gaited.
But best of all, outshining all the rest,
A golden mare.
Like a pale sun, she forced the others
Into secondary places,
And faded with the dawn as I awoke.
Copyright © 2007 by Mary Brunini McArdle