Kinds of Honey

twinkling

snow: still and white.

beyond the roar and slush of the street,
past the fence, a pasture. blanketed.

four chocolate black horses
bend their necks to nuzzle for grass.

the sky grows night blue behind them.

and in a moment I am not in
this car, not post-holiday gray,
but brushing wet velvet noses,

a little girl with periwinkle mittens
who knows, after all, that
something so beautiful
must be fraught with magic.