“Franz Marc’s Blue Horses”

I step into the painting of the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that I can do this.

One of the horses walks toward me.
His blue nose noses me lightly. I put my arm
over his blue mane, not holding on, just
      commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than try to explain to the blue horses
       what war is.
They would either faint in horror, or simply 
        find it impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually.
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
         is the piece of God inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come closer,
         are bending their faces toward me
               as if they have secrets to tell.
I don't expect them to speak, and they don't.
If being so beautiful isn't enough, what 
          could they possibly say?

— Mary Oliver, from Blue Horses, 2020

Franz Marc, The Large Blue Horses, 1911