"Ode to the Joyful Ones" by Thomas Lux

"The Dance" Henri Matisse, 1910

Shield your joyful ones.

—from an Anglican prayer

That they walk, even stumble, among us is reason

to praise them, or protect them—even the sound

of a lead slug dropped on a lead plate, even that, for them,

is music. Because they bring laughter’s

brief amnesia. Because they stand,

talking, taking pleasure in others,

with their hands on the shoulders of strangers

and the shoulders of each other.

Because you don’t have to tell them to walk toward the light.

Because if there are two pork chops

they will serve you the better one.

Because they will give you the crutch off their backs.

Because when there are two of them together

their shining fills the room.

Because you don’t have to tell them to walk toward the light.

"Ode to the Joyful Ones" by Thomas Lux from To the Left of Time.

© Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2016.

"Dead Horse" by Thomas Lux

At the fence line, I was about to call him in when,

at two-thirds profile, head low

and away from me, he fell first

to his right front knee

and then the left, and he was down,

dead before he hit the...

My father saw him drop, too,

and a neighbor, who walked over.

He was a good horse, old,

spavined, eating grass during the day

and his oats and hay

at night. He didn't mind, or try to boss, the cows

with which he shared these acres.

My father said: Happens. Our neighbor,

named Malcolm, walked back to his place

and was soon grinding toward us

with his tractor's new backhoe,

of which he was proud

but so far used only to dig two sump holes.

It was the knacker who'd haul away a cow.

A horse, a good horse, you buried

where he, or she, fell. Malcolm

cut a trench beside the horse

and we pushed him in.

I'd already said goodbye

before I tried to close his eyes.

Our neighbor returned the dirt

from where it came. In it: stones,

stones never seen before

by a human's, nor even a worm's, eye.

With the back of a shovel

we tamped the dirt down.

One dumb cow

stood by. It was a Friday.

For supper we ate hot dogs, with beans

on buttered white bread. Every Friday,

hot dogs and beans.

"Dead Horse" by Thomas Lux, from Child Made of Sand. © Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012.