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Posts Tagged ‘Laura Sievert poem’

I don’t fancy myself a poet, but somehow, a couple of times a year, I end up writing a poem.  I’m not sure what brings these bursts of outside-of-my-comfort-zone writing on most of the time.  Usually some idea just crosses my hurried mind and I happen to have enough time to think about it a while and… well, poof! I end up writing a poem.  This particular poem started at the not-so-creative hour of 5:30 in the morning when an unusual January storm woke me up.  I don’t share my poems much- but partly because I kind of like this one and partly because I haven’t had any new content on my blog in a while, I decided to share.  I hope you can imagine the cold, January thunderstorm that inspired this poem, and I hope you enjoy.

Horses Are Made Out Of Thunder

by Laura Sievert

“Horses are made out of thunder,” she said.

“Oh?” he replied, not bothering to look up from his morning paper or to acknowledge the unusual January Storm outside the window.

Leonardo Da Vinci's horse sketch; credit Wikipedia.

“Yes.” she responded.  She knew he wasn’t listening anyway.  She busied herself with making coffee as her mind raced away in the sound of the cold wind.

Horses are made out of thunder, she thought, and all the glory of storms.

There were two at the camp when she was a girl; two mares that played in a small pen.  They were distant thunder.  Thunder from a storm that wouldn’t ever drop rain where she was standing.  Hooves in hard-packed mud and bodies bathed in dusty light and a cloudburst never quite realized.

And the time that her parents drove her West through the plains to visit Kansas or Colorado or Wyoming… The wild horses through the minivan window were too many to count but in their great energy raged a wonderful summer storm, replete with wind and lightning and chaos.

There were condemned horses packed in a pen off the highway near Little Rock.  They stood stoic but shuffled occasionally as best they could.  They were a low-skied November shower with tortured rumbles that couldn’t be heard from inside of the house but could be felt while standing on the porch watching the cold, gray rain.

She dated a rodeo rider in college.  His painted barrel racing horse had a sweet face and dark eyes that belied the power he was capable of.  His thunder radiated from his flanks with hail and electricity; bursts that would certainly set off the tornado sirens.

And there were the untamed ponies splashing around in the water on the beaches of South Carolina.  They were a squall that begged to be played in; they stood almost close enough to touch or to stroke.  Almost.  To touch the wild ponies was to court the dangerous reprisal of mighty and passionate thunder.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“Oh?” he replied, not bothering to look up from his morning paper or to acknowledge the unusual January Storm outside the window.

“Yes,” she responded.  She knew he wasn’t listening anyway.  She stepped out the door without a raincoat or umbrella and rode the thunder away from there.

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