Paper Horse

there is one horse left at the castle.

it is made of silver paper.

it remembers the child who smoothed out its creases,

sometimes it has a longing for oranges

an amethyst bridle then it softly neighs.

it is my horse.

it is the only one left of its kind.

it understands my sunsets more than I could confide;

my sudden departures.

where could I lead it, it would not willingly go.

soon  we may leave the courtyard.

the fragrant gardens behind.

putting the paper horse through its paces

among sad galaxies.

otherwise, what would it do here, alone.

I'm the only one who can ride it.

mary  angela douglas 6 may 2021