Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Two Nov-Dec 2026.
Girl and horse, poems by Kim Ports Parsons.
Girl and Horse
I hold out my hand, stretch my palm flat,
offer grass and clover to the pregnant mare,
wait for the tickle of her chin whiskers.
The knock of her iron shoe against the planks
is a gentle sound. I saw the farrier once,
how he muscled a horse’s legs between his own,
how one animal snorted, whinnied, then settled,
how another shook its head, snapped its ears,
reared and neighed, then lunged, coming down
with the power to crush.
It’s cool and dark here
in the horse barn. I’m trespassing. I sneak here
sometimes, through unplowed fields,
and climb the fence. The mare’s breath
pulls her bulging sides in and out, heaving.
She’s due soon, the old groom told me.
Her eyes so deep and knowing seems like
I could dive in and drown, or get lost,
like Mama does, in a staring daydream.
I try to picture the foal’s entry, the push,
the slipping, the sudden landing in a steaming pile.
Our beagle moaned and cried when she gave birth,
then washed each puppy so eagerly. I think
a mother might do anything.
I’ve never ridden a horse, never worn
a red velvet hat. Wish I could have her foal
for my own, circle its tender neck,
brush it, bring it carrots, raise it up
to know my hand, to trust me.
We could ride far and free.
It’s getting late now. I stroke her soft jaw,
whisper, everything’s going to be okay, girl.
I step into the late afternoon light, begin to walk
home, then break into a gallop on the green.
How to Grow Sweetness
One spring morning, warm a last slice. Design this year’s patch
as you chew. Savor walnuts, ginger, beginnings, fruition.
Watch bluebirds loop from the arch to the budding ground.
Out in the field, winter’s cast offs like so much dirty laundry.
No worry. Pull, hoe, and rake. Let the wheelbarrow explain
the muscles of summer. What emerges is ripe humus, domed and ready.
Not yet, but soon. No hurry. Arrange packets of fairy tale, candy roaster,
butternut, and country gentleman. Peg in stakes to mark each chorus
of abundance. Weed and water when you can. Listen to the shining
blossoms, singing in July. Round tones to calm and refresh
in August. Some benign neglect is curative. Resting in a cool, dark place
doesn’t hurt, either. Trust the squash to reach its own mellow conclusions.
When snow laces the roof, roast a few, long and low. Fragrant steam
gentles the house. Mash enough to smooth out tension.
Stir in eggs, spice, anticipation. Feel your mother’s hands
as you grease and flour her old tins. Wash up while the bread is baking.
Toss seed for the birds. Make sure butter is set out to soften.
When the loaves have settled, lean slices down the length of the board.
© Kim Ports Parsons
Kim Ports Parsons worked in education for thirty years. She lives in the Virginia mountains and volunteers for Cultivating Voices LIVE Poetry. Her poems appear in print and online publications, such as Poetry Ireland Review and Spillwords. Her first collection, The Mayapple Forest was published by Terrapin Books in 2022.
Beautiful poems, Kim
Beautiful poem. Thanks for all the images that come while reading your poems.