When I think of how my flights were spent
Before these days grounded on my own feet,
A warm hide, coarse mane, hoofbeat,
Until my very being was rent.
Dark eyes, flicked ear, face buried in the scent,
My security, my dry future this love did cheat.
A lamb ambling to slaughter without a bleat,
Setting aside all that flying has meant.
My mind insists “Adults don’t need
The sieving sand steps when the world was best.”
My heart leaks the invisible essence of life.
Whosoever says a heart does not bleed
Has not from that ineffable organ wrest
The glory of those galloped heights.
inspired by John Milton’s “On His Blindness”
Put Out to Pasture 