In which I can't sleep, and so now there is a horsaii poem to share

Yup, it's too hot to sleep. Also too hot to build goat fencing, too hot to chop firewood for winter, and too hot to even vacuum the house. It's too. dang. hot. for just about everything...except poetry.

Seems that when it's too hot to sleep, it's not too hot to think about yesterday's poem. And to wonder how I could write it again, but focus this time on a different set of origins. Here's the result.

Where I'm From, part 2

I am from boots and breeches and helmets, from beetpulp,

Coppertox, and saddle soap.

I am from a hay-sweet shed at the bottom of the hill, from a boarding barn crowded with nickers when the truck is parked, a pasture outside the kitchen window.

I am from the green alfalfa crumbs, the long timothy stalks, the bale-flattened thistles. I am from fresh-chewed grass drooled on a white shirt.

I am from cleaning paddocks by moonlight, building fences in the rain, from a quick trot up the hill and back after work.

I am from Midnight and Tonka, Mariah, Bo, Kira and Sarek.

I am from Story.

I am from the Toad, and Hana. I am from Fiddle.

I’m from dressage, from endurance, from trail riding.

I am from too dumb to be scared sometimes, and more stubborn than smart sometimes too.
From shut up and ride, and don’t worry about falling off because the ground is right there.

I am from carrot-breath as the cure for a bad day, and stall cleaning as refuge from a bad marriage. I’m from agile lips whuffling through cornstalk hair.

From the last time she fetched the bunny, and

from the first time she put her head through the stall window.

I am from portraits above the piano, on the fridge, on the desk. From paintings and photos, and scribbles in the margins of class notes.

I am the tattoo, forever trotting, that will never go away, never fade, never be left behind.

I am from horses.

Blacks and bays, spotted and greys, I am from all the pretty horses.