Near the low end of the meadow
there is a yellow horse. It lives
there—between the meadow and the pond.
It lives on someone’s land,
because everything is claimed,
but I know not whose.
It is, perhaps, the most beautiful
horse I will ever see,
and yet it is blind.
It knows nothing of beauty.
It is nobody’s horse, and even if it did
belong to anyone, this horse,
with its opaque eyes, might never know it.
Even the priceless thoroughbreds
may be unaware.