Reflections of a housewife watching a horse out the window.
The red horse ambles past frilly kitchen windows. I see only his likeness shift on hanging copper pans. They are expensive pans with no sense of adventure.
Snow in your mane, Red Horse. Shake it lightly on the balcony -- I will sweep it down the stairway to melt under the braided rug, coiled. I will dance in my lace slippers tapping toes, circling small no longer steady on this pedestal.
I polish the pans and the Red Horse reflected there. He shows me how well I look in snow.