She would not have stood still for this
just a year ago, at 24, without halter—
the Bute paste syringe I ease between her lips
twice a day, arm draped around her drooping neck,
our eyes, a few inches apart, hers
crusty and, lately, seeping
as I come closer each evening
to believing the ultimate
meaning of life is nothing
more than accepting death. I kiss her brow
at dawn, lick a fingertip, rub away
the crud beneath her eyes, scratch
her sagged belly, say good morning ol' girl,
feed her the healthiest-looking flakes,
walk spryly back to the house,
pour hot coffee atop the half-cup of lukewarm,
phone my 81-year-old Mother. I kiss again
the old mare's brow at dusk,
massage her belly, enjoy watching her head poised
young-colt-high, noble as she held it
in her foaling days. I fork her the greenest
leafiest alfalfa-brome mix,
plod the shadowy path
back to the house—so much longer
now, in the echo of my own goodnight, knowing
I have already phoned home.