But we can't say beautiful, I learned
in approvals. Rather, describe the Friesian mane,

its tail, as long and thick, its legs
by their trademark feathers

some adjectives still being acceptable
though Mark Twain said when you catch one,

kill it, along with your extraneous color and verbs

I grasp at words my editors will keep
for the ebony body, a build better than statuesque,

for this warmblood—a noun,
in this instance, warm is allowed—

though Friesian, as proper, is capped
and anyone knowing the breed doesn't need

my apt description of how the stallion survived
its particular gastric impaction, commonly known

as colic, or the scope of the J-incision
the surgeon sliced down its side, the number of stitches

or a background of 2,000 years of history,
even the breed’s near extinction,

but that’s a long story, if you want one
of hope, if we’re allowed to call it that—

a comeback, for today. Rather say elegance
without saying it, say all-black

is the standard adhered to by most registries,
that only a single white star on the forehead

is possible for a purebred,
but what I really want to tell you

is after its weeklong recovery from surgery
I touched this horse of many hands

with my own, then put them to work
I could still do, to share this draft

horse with you, leave you wanting,
let the lack of language speak.

What did Frost say?
Nothing gold can stay.

—Sarah Carey

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