The Comfort a Mare Gives after the Death of Your Father

I escaped to a pasture where
my yearning heart would trot beside hers.
My cold hands gripped the tattered fence
as I thought how it was a day like this—
when the sun dangles
from your eyelashes—that my dad died.
The dust formed into wind from her
gracefully springing steps. The mare's
head bobbed over each fence post
between us as she watched me. I paused,
the evening sun drawing the delicate lines
of her face. A large white diamond covered
the wide span between her dark,
wondering eyes. But that was a moment
before I sprinted to the other end
of the pasture. Her tall silhouette was confused
behind me. Then her hocks scrunched low
and her front legs rose in a leaping gallop
as excitement burst through her legs.
She met me with her lovely head held high
above me so I could bury my face into
her thick neck and scratch her
long thin mane with my quivering hands.