How pleasant the yellow butter

    melting on white kernels， the meniscus

    of red wine that coats the insides of our goblets

    where we sit with sturdy friends as old as we are

    after shucking the garden's last Silver Queen

    and setting husks and stalks aside for the horses

    the last two of our lives， still noble to look upon：

    our first foal， now a bossy mare of 28

    which calibrates to 84 in people years

    and my chestnut gelding， not exactly a youngster

    at 22. Every year， the end of summer

    lazy and golden， invites grief and regret：

    suddenly it's 1980， winter buffets us，

    winds strike like cruelty out of Dickens. Somehow

    we have seven horses for six stalls. One of them，

    a big-nosed roan gelding， calm as a president's portrait

    lives in the rectangle that leads to the stalls. We call it

    the motel lobby. Wise old campaigner， he dunks his

    hay in the water bucket to soften it， then visits the others

    who hang their heads over their dutch doors. Sometimes

    he sprawls out flat to nap in his commodious quarters.

    That spring， in the bustle of grooming

    and riding and shoeing， I remember I let him go

    to a neighbor I thought was a friend， and the following

    fall she sold him down the river. I meant to

    but never did go looking for him， to buy him back

    and now my old guilt is flooding this twilit table

    my guilt is ghosting the candles that pale us to skeletons

    the ones we must all become in an as yet unspecified order.

    Oh Jack， tethered in what rough stall alone

    did you remember that one good winter？