Mary Oliver…..Franz Marc's Blue Horses
I step into the painting of the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that i can do this.
One of the horses walks toward me.
His blue nose noses me lightly. I put my arm
over his blue mane, not holding on, just
commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc, died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than try to explain to the blue horses
what war is.
They woud either faint in horror, or simply
find it impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually,
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come close,
are bending their faces toward me
as if they have secrets to tell.
I don't expect them to speak, and they don't.
If being so beautiful isn't enough, what
could they possibly say?
~.~
Yesterday there was gun fire up at the Truck stop 4.something miles from here. some thief stealing a state police vehicle, them chasing him, shooting at the tires to just where i went to find the stick for the Cloth. Me and Terri, the UPS driver, sitting there at the side of the road, feeling uhhhh, feeling something, because we don't expect gun fire here, in this world.
And i sat with them, Goats, last eve. I sat again with them today. Feeling how our skulls meet, pressed gently together…them doing the pressing, me receiving, and how we exchange breath. I want to make a cloth of this. How it is, this pressing and breathing, our eyes, open, but somewhere else.
i added onion skins to the yerba mansa and put the cloth back in. I want more orange or red, i want the color of Goat's Eyes
the stick is Cottonwood. and here, in the middle is an Eye. Cottonwood is our large Tree here…in the Bosque, along the Rio Grande River. Bosque spanish for forest. Along the river, Cottonwood, Tamarisk and River Willow.
windthread 
Leave a comment