A Sad Day

When all your imaginary friends could gallop,
And all your books were full of whinnies.
The shelves heavy with prancing feet,
Frozen in a perfect ballet of grace and fire.

When you dreamed every day of warm muzzles,
And soft, curious eyes with just a hint of mischief.
The days when you could just touch one,
Were all Christmas, birthday, and the 4th of July.

And you rode wild over the fields, half in balance
Hearing the most unusual sound, mixed in drumbeats
Heartbeats, hoofbeats, and then something else.
The sound of your laughter, coming from deep inside.

When they would speak to you, playful, curious, or angry.
And thanked you when you soothed their aches or itches.
Worked for you when they were tired,
Or believed you when you calmed their fears.

When you weep for the perfect ones, gone in their prime,
Friends of children, or the unborn, cold on the ground.
Or those so exquisite, they capture your soul.
Then perhaps you are a horsewoman.