Spirit Wind Horse Rescue
Your Subtitle text
In Memory of those who have left our pastures
Remmington your time with us was way to short, if only the people that had you had taken care of your injured leg. We tried all we could to save you but the pain you were in was to severe. How sad that your life here on earth was cut so short, but you were always so patient with all the treatments we tried, unfortunately it was your time to go. We know you are somewhere now running free with green pastures and babbling brooks, no more pain and know that we do miss you and think of you often.
Spikie our friend, you were probably the oldest burrow on the face of the earth. We know you had a good life with us and a long one with your foster mom. We miss you rubbing your head on us and your greetings each time someone came by the barn. You will always remain in our memories as the sweetest boy we ever knew.
Thande
Poem for the red horse, on her last afternoon.
On your last afternoon,
the sun gilds the valley floor,
turning rough barn wood to precious metal
and triangles of chickens into long,
hopeful shadows.
Even the geese are reverent,
staring into the sun as it hangs for a moment,
shafts of light illuminating the geometry of you,
all angles and lines. A mathmatic equation
I have not been able to master,
A language made of skin and bone,
worn hooves, and the most tender part of you,
this large heart that does not contain your suffering,
or my grief. Perhaps this is one definition
of being human:
The difficulty of existing only in this moment
of sweet hay, autumn light, the fading warmth of a November day.
I stay with you until the barren trees
look like dark lace
against the narrow, red-orange ribbon of horizon.
(D. Kemper, 2008)
On your last afternoon,
the sun gilds the valley floor,
turning rough barn wood to precious metal
and triangles of chickens into long,
hopeful shadows.
Even the geese are reverent,
staring into the sun as it hangs for a moment,
shafts of light illuminating the geometry of you,
all angles and lines. A mathmatic equation
I have not been able to master,
A language made of skin and bone,
worn hooves, and the most tender part of you,
this large heart that does not contain your suffering,
or my grief. Perhaps this is one definition
of being human:
The difficulty of existing only in this moment
of sweet hay, autumn light, the fading warmth of a November day.
I stay with you until the barren trees
look like dark lace
against the narrow, red-orange ribbon of horizon.
(D. Kemper, 2008)
