Poetry, but not poetry.

So, I wrote this a while ago, and I just found it today when I was organizing my 14-year-old pile of art and paper and writings….and I thought you guys might like to hear it.

Isabel

She never spoke, but somehow I always knew what she meant.

I was Macy.

She was Isabel.

Isabel with the long dark hair and wide blue eyes.

Other kids didn’t understand her. They said she was just another nerd.

It was true, that Isabel never spoke.

Not to people anyway.

 

Isabel spoke to horses.

She would sit among them for hours,

listening to their troubles and telling them hers.

Even at night, she would gaze down at them from the window, watching them graze in the silvery moonlight.

 

I understood her a little. But only a little.

Even our parents had to figure to understand her simplest wishes.

But the horses didn’t.

Gray, brown, black and bay,

all listened.

And all understood.

 

One day I was curious, as to how she spoke to them.

So I followed her out, into the field.

I saw her from afar, standing among them as she always did.

But when I got there, she was gone.

“Isabel!” I cried for my little sister. “Oh, Isabel!”

 

Then I heard a sound behind.

I turned.

The most beautiful horse I had ever seen stood there,

a chocolate mare,

with wide blue eyes,

four white socks,

and a thick white blaze.

 

Then I understood. It was Isabel.

 

As if she read my thoughts, the mare, Isabel, let out a long, beautiful neigh.

Then she turned and ran.

 

I never saw her again, but my sister, Isabel, learned to speak.


 

What do you think? Poetry, but not poetry. Sort of in-between.

to-many-seiggys-3

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