by Bob Moore
A white horse standing in the snow,
along a white fence waves its tail.
It might be male, I do not know,
but in the light it’s plain to me
the question of its beauty lies
not in its gender or its eyes
but how its tailored symmetry
brings elements of sky and land,
the fence, the wood house painted white,
together in reflected light.
The way its muscled shoulders stand
above the snow, below a tree,
says something of a kind of gold
that can’t be measured by its weight,
or on a sign that says “For Sale”,
but valued in its present state,
transcending age, the looming cold.
It is the beauty in the storm,
and though it’s witnessed on a farm,
it is the grace in any form.