You tell everyone the dream about the sick horse
surrounded by angels who fan its matted mane,
caress it gently until it heals before your eyes.
You know immediately the horse is you,
surrounded by angels, who pat your matted mane,
your silent wounded head, the neural blood-choked rivers.
You know immediately the horse is you,
God’s physicians had brought the scent of healing pastures.
Your silent wounded head held neural blood-choked rivers.
As you convalesce remember miracles still happen,
(God’s physicians had brought the scent of healing pastures.)
What you dreamed was a work no surgeon could foresee.
As you convalesce remember miracles still happen,
that divine recovery thrives outside doubt or chance.
What you dreamed no mortal surgeon could foresee.
If the dream returns be sure to remember the look
in their eyes, what gaze turns pain into something well past it,
caressed you gently until you healed before our eyes.
When we ask you how you are, you smile,
tell everyone the dream about the sick horse.
Photo by Joseph Daniel on Unsplash
