Fresh Ponies
She left
and the job went too.
Empty
I watch them go
like two trains
charging for the horizon
someplace worth getting to, fast.
Alone.
I am an abandoned town.
The once-proud schools
have all been informed
that they are only buildings
after all.
And the silent ballfields
look foolish-
still fully dressed
still eagerly clutching
their neatly squared bases.
But this morning I awoke from dreamless black sleep,
to find the world had made itself anew.
Someone, apparently, had coaxed it through a car wash:
all sparkling puddles and whistle-sharp shafts
of clean sunshine.
Spring leaves shine with dew,
wriggling wildly in the wind like fresh ponies
and when the wind eases momentarily
they hold out their palms to show me their tiny prizes.
And the air - the air!
Springtime fresh, it's fierce, and alive-
the air of high mountain passes
has turned up down here, somehow.
It seems
the world makes itself anew
for me
every day
and I would do well
would I do the same.
Copyright © Dave Horton | Year Posted 2014
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