Chiaroscuro Horses

It doesn’t matter that the barn
can’t taste the fly or the floorboard
smell the boot, its cobbled leather,
manure underfoot. Sometimes horizon
knows more than sky. I can stare
for hours into its learning curve
as snow settles into fissures, purple hues.
From the far reaches of the corral,
a horse knickers in the color red.
Blue outlines its steamy breath.

It doesn’t matter that the pinto’s ear
can’t remember tomorrow,
or that the appaloosa can’t choose
its own color. Sometimes people
make flags out of stars, hang them
from poles, let wind release the tarnish
of exhaust, the scent of burnt umber,
but I just want to smell the color green,
inhale the elusive taste of yesterday.

It doesn’t matter that the palomino’s mane
tangles with cocklebur, or that its tail,
damp from frost, matts with snarls.
It doesn’t matter that the curry comb
is rusted, missing teeth. I brush her neck
with my palm open, let rosada and moreno
stain my fingers with the colors of today.
It doesn’t matter that the barn can’t taste
the fly or the floorboard smell the boot,
its cobbled leather, manure underfoot.