I am mule.
My bay, an obnoxious yap
from graying muzzle,
as I move from under master’s whip.
My velvet ears twitch
with distrust for the acts of man.
I will not be owned
and have grown impatient
with the repeated deeds of
those who claim to know what’s best,
so I become obstinate
with mud to my knees
rebelling by standing still,
immovable in open stall
despite the whistle on the wind.
I want only a gentle hand, but deny
those offered me as though
their compassion was insult or pity.
No longer do I hold plough forward,
but I long to safeguard the moments
as they are gifted: one sunset, one thoughtful word,
one cube of sugar, one kindness at a time.
Surely, this perseverance
will lead me to dry pastures where only
the occasional fly distracts from
solitude and peace.