Spring 1986, Volume 3
Poetry

StephenClark
Morning Mists

Through the frosted mist
Of early morn
There, in the knee deep snow
Upon the whitened meadow,
Barely seen through the white air
The faded forms of four paint horses
Heads bowed,
Still, but for the rise and fall of ribs.
They must be cold
Their backs and lashes covered
With the whitened starry shapes
Of pointed starry ice.
From the north
The wind blows the air
From their nostrils before them
Toward the south
To some place warm.
Silently, patiently they wait
For the morning sun
And the gentle hand of him
Who comes to feed them.

 

DOW