I step into the painting of the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that I can do this.
One of the horses walks toward me.
His blue nose noses me lightly. I put my arm
over his blue mane, not holding on, just
commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than try to explain to the blue
horses
what war is.
They would either faint in horror, or simply
find it
impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually.
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
is the piece of
God that is inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come closer,
are bending
their faces toward me
as if
they have secrets to tell.
I don’t expect them to speak, and they don’t.
If being so beautiful isn’t enough, what
could they
possibly say?
Mary Oliver, inwardboundpoetry.blogspot.com October 4, 2020
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