Wailana by Deborah Butterfield
Head bowed a scaffolded horse
mummers the ghostly song of wind
moving through skeletal bronze-
is she hurt, exhausted, starved;
something seems, not quite right?
Like a found poem with the familiar
refashioned, she was first constructed
of the commonplace, wood, scrap
metal, branches, junkyard stuff, plastic
a collage of the ordinary
then forged in bronze.
In winter snow gathers on her back.
In summer her patina blazes with sunlight.
In spring she gleams with rain droplets-
a horse for all seasons.
She has survived many years
but there comes a time.
She stands alone, riderless, tackless
She has always been riderless
never owned by anyone but the wind
And if she were to loosen her hoofs
walk off into the distance she would
lift off, smoothly, flowingly
with the fluidity of winged