The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2008

the smell of horses

as you lie dying, incredibly,

rain keeps falling,

snow melts, there is new grass

and the smell of horses;

their soft chuff!, stamping of feet,

nuzzling of pockets for treats.

then the shrieks of naked children

who do not know,

who go on summering and porpoising in plastic backyard wading pools,

their dogs driven mad with joy

at so much noise and water,

as if nothing extraordinary were happening,

which

is as it should be.

months compress into hours,

a day requires a full year to pass,

and now and again, time stops altogether.

you called me your rock, once;

we laughed, then,

about whether I was

granite, or rose quartz, or perhaps

amethyst.

Today I hold a geode:

that marvel of crystalline engineering,

the round black boulder,

so quiet, plain; the shocking lining of purple.

I roll it over and over in my palms,

slide fingertips along the points, waiting

for the phone to ring.

time stops altogether, then with an almighty crunch and grind,

starts up again:

suddenly autumn crocus are in bloom.

and chrysanthemum, ragged, rust red and sharply golden,

as if no one ever lay dying.

I pick a handful, then another.

hours pass:

shredded petals fill my lap.

as you lie dying:

a low sky and the smell of warm snow

hovering at the doorstep between ice and water.

warmth or cold determine whether I see

solid, liquid, gas.

somehow this seems important.

you ask, I bring

a squeezed fistful, not quite a snowball,

and lay it in your upturned palm.

we sit quietly, watching it melt:

ice, water, gone.

                   Spring 2007

Diane Lee Moomey