Across the water

There she is, across the water
waiting for me, unconcerned
head down, forelock wind-blown,
lips whiffling the snow
searching for the impossible grass.

There she stands, looking out
across the long forty, high and low, swept
like the gentle curves of her face
in seeming indifference

to my hand outstretched
across the deep cut, the ice,
the long drop, the innavigable
water, unsufferable as despair.

Her black tail veiling her fetlocks
her mane a labyrinth of snarls
she knows, but cannot show it
how broken my soul is

not to reach her. For I stand
not upon the bank
but at my window.

My fingers touch not the wind
but the frosty glass
not ten feet from my bed.

The wish for tears frozen inside
to be cried into her neck
remains searing

I know how to be healed
and my will alone

cannot move my feet.

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