My teeth were gone
By the time you
Called the vet with the
Needle.
Mine had become
Bran-mash-applesauce mornings and
Creaking out to the great oak.
Following it’s shade.
I wish I knew how to tell you
“Don’t cry,” when
you pressed our foreheads together .
How to say that
Those bones you found
Were Fred who
Pulled the mower for
His own hay before I and even you were born.
He claims he was dapple gray.
How could I know?
These days, our bones
Are resting.
Our present is a dream of the past:
Apple cores and chubby children’s hands.
Mostly, though, deep sleep and
Galloping through the
Tangled roots of the
Great oak.
Put Out to Pasture 
I love this!
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Thank you!
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🙂
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I don’t find these from the grave poems at all creepy. More reassuring. Still figuring who will talk to me.
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I couldn’t write a creepy one!
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Beautiful and heartbreaking. I love horses.💜
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Clearly I do too. Thank you.
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Also, from yours “I think parentheses where words are
insufficient & I fill them with silence.” –just incredible! The thick pelt…what an amazing poem.
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I had to let my perfect dun boy go last August. He was only 14. Still not over it. This poem wrecked me.
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Oh I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for your perfect dun and your heart and their shorter lives. ❤️
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Ahh! Much love for this one. ❤
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Lovely, heart felt memory of a passing friend.
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