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Even a Blank Page Can Be a Poem To a Horse
Following the plow
Watching the Belgian’s rump
His flanks, his course tail
As the dark fertile soil is turned
By the moldboard and the share
On the sweet path down the furrow
Walking the field under the sun
Plowing the good earth has its own song
Leather gently slapping, iron clinking,
The rattle of the plow
I whistle along and the draft horse’s ears
Perk up to each new verse
I daydream of poems I should write
But like the horse’s poem
My page is blank for now
Watching the Belgian’s rump
His flanks, his course tail
As the dark fertile soil is turned
By the moldboard and the share
On the sweet path down the furrow
Walking the field under the sun
Plowing the good earth has its own song
Leather gently slapping, iron clinking,
The rattle of the plow
I whistle along and the draft horse’s ears
Perk up to each new verse
I daydream of poems I should write
But like the horse’s poem
My page is blank for now
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