The Mare's Tears

It’s sad how completely turned off I am

By equations, formulas,

And ridiculous diagrams.

If it does not involve some minuscule spark

Of storytelling, creativity,

Or daydreaming,

You’ve lost a good chunk of my attention.

Only if I buckle down,

Put a muzzle on my mind,

And force it into a yoke,

Will I be able to plow the fields

Of Physics or Geometry.

My mind is a mare, not an ox.

She was not bred for such heavy labor.

When we finish the day’s work,

I unharness her, lead her to the stables,

And try to fix her up a bit.

I wash the dirt and sweat

From her coat,

Brush out the goatheads,

And massage the knots

From her muscles.

But even then, she is too tired to do

What she was born to do-

Run across fields of blank pages,

And in her hoofprints,

Leave behind a story.

Peering out the stable door,

I see the last bars of sunset

Soaking into the land.

My soul leaps.

“C’mon,” I say. “We still have light to spare.”

She snorts at me,

And lowers her ears,

Leaving me to trod the winepress

Alone.

I come back sweating, sleepy-eyed,

And tired all the way

To my bones.

By then, dusk has slipped over the horizon,

And night has spread

Her starry wings.

I find my mare lying in the corner,

Thick streams of tears

Running down her face.

My heart melts.

I go to her, kneel beside her,

And share in her weeping.

She is my spirit, the essence of all I am,

And she’s dying.

The Great Star Hunter stalks across the sky,

Heading into the deep of midnight.

We are still awake.

I sing my mare songs I heard when I was young,

And some songs I heard today.

My voice is raspy from crying,

But I finally get her to sleep.

Before the sun can rise from pillow clouds,

I shake my mare awake.

“C’mon,” I say, my eyes half closed.

“We can make it.

One more day.”