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.
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