A Poem of Thanksgiving, from "Song of the Overcast"

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That Autumn in Pennsylvania

 

 

Little has given me so much joy

as to walk quietly into that field of horses 

 

early each Saturday, the smell of earth and animal 

sweet and musky, to look for the reddish 

 

freckled one called Strawberry. To approach her 

as I would a loved one sleeping. I’d let her 

 

notice me, run my hand along the length 

of her neck, speak low and sing-song 

 

of the morning’s innocence. Of her warmth. 

I could be tethered to this earth forever, forgetting 

 

what our bodies lose every moment to the open 

air. Our exhalations rising in clouds, disappearing 

 

into the fields of the sky. Here is the scent 

and warmth of uneven ground. And breath enough 

 

for large and small breathing bodies. Taking 

her reins I start walking. Her ponderous hooves lift 

 

and follow. When her head swings down 

for a scratch across my wool sweater, I feel 

 

the weight of her. Such large love so late 

in the year.

 


—From Song of the Overcast, a chapbook of poems by Beverly Voigt

 

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