The Hour the Red Horse Waited

The Hour the Red Horse Waited

The red horse stands among winter branches,

pine needles breathing out old December air.

Ornaments sway with the smallest memory of touch,

time gathers itself in the quiet between bells.

A clock hangs low and heavy with waiting,

its face worn by moments it never explains.

Each number holds its breath, polished and still,

as though the hour itself is listening.

Snow dusts the horse’s brow like borrowed starlight,

tiny flecks resting where thoughts might live.

There is no rush in those dark watching eyes,

only patience learned from seasons repeating.

The forest glows without needing a voice,

red and green leaning close in agreement.

Nothing here asks to be hurried along,

even the seconds seem willing to pause.

This is the hour before something changes,

not loudly, not with a sudden command.

It arrives the way truth often does,

quietly, already certain it belongs.

The horse does not move, because it knows,

some things are kept by standing still.

Time will pass whether watched or not,

and meaning settles when we finally look.