The Mare’s Eye

Rest your nervous eye, my blinking beauty.
My hand comes up slow to your nostrils
so you take in the all of me,
the all of me that seeks to nuzzle your cheek,
the whole that knows how we soothe
each other, the soft tips of your ears
turned to consider trust of my low shushes.

I am not predator, and for this moment
you are not herd, not chased, not pushed
to go anywhere except into the quiet
rustle of hay flakes where mice nest
in the straw and the gray barn cat
curls its tail against the sliding door.

You know all of this,
the over and over
how we gentle each other.