You burst from the starting gate
and though I pull on the reins,
I hang on for the ride,
longing for 1940’s snail-pace years
when I wanted to be older, faster, sooner.
Now you race through weeks and months,
rushing to your demise. Do you ever
think of jumping fence,
lying in green pasture,
letting me slip from the saddle
to the spacious terrain of silence
where I can breathe
reflections about my life,
feel the texture of grass,
and gaze into your tender eyes?
© by Jeanie Greensfelder.
Used with the author’s permission.