Three pine horses frozen in a little wooden carousel,
A mirror of something real with no flaw or melody.
No music. No sound. No
A wreath of beads draped around a wooden canopy,
Made delicate with pink lace and silk flowers.
No creaking. No laughter. No
A pretty, pretty wall-hanging–
Three horses impaled on wooden poles,
That pin them, hold them
Or leave or sneak
Into the shadows
Away from the pretty little roses
And the perfect, perfect beads.