So finely tuned with mom,
Tails stroking on the same watch,
Deep with the mother's
All-knowing gaze
Of vigilance, concern,
Being strong against
The world
For her baby,
Something in her wants
To be seen
If only to recognize
How the regal is natural,
Her pose is her grace,
Her undivided attention
To give herself
In service,
What the universe expects,
For she has a purpose at last.
It was so confusing before,
What good being a woman
With all those restrictions on
Superhuman abilities,
Unshareable ways to see
The void inside the massive heart
That lets everything
In.
But for now, she knows
And she owns, in her gait,
This knowledge.
The little one
Tears free, so trusting
She can bolt at any time
And mother becomes a child again
After a frantic moment she has to
Recover what's left her over time,
Will, speed, restlessness ...
But then she glides in place
In the regimen of the dance
As the wind blows their manes
In the same preordained way.
The little one rears up
Like a knight in chess claiming
The air itself
As her own
But her mother's scowl,
So stern and disapproving,
So false
Cuts just enough
Moxie
The goal remains
But the means
Have been modified,
Things have been learned.
Someone thought to put
Indian paintbrush blue
Blankets on most of the horses
To protect them from the flies they know
Are coming, this row of them,
Like all of them had the same mama.
But her individuality comes
From how she can deliver all
Her new to life requires,
There's no gratitude except
In the air, which her filly breathes
As if the source of love is always there.
