The Farrier
She was fifteen; you, thirty-two.
I wonder, did she blossom
in your hands?
Some men don't understand flowers
bloom best unforced.
You wouldn't. You never
let your colts run barefoot,
preferred to shape red-hot iron
to your own specifications.
You knew how to use a twitch
to make a filly stand quiet,
quiver with anticipation
at an opening gate, or prance
under light fingers
plucking reins.
It wasn't her time
to flower. Spring came
early that year.
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