AT WINSLOW'S
MANOR
I put a colorful saddle on your
Palomino pony, and ran through
the woods like a dagger through a
heart. I searched every tree-trunk for
the names we'd carved in long ago,
but found nothing had grown over but
the moss and all our wounds.
-
Having tea at Winslow's Manor, I
wondering who'd named it thus -
one cannot win by being slow, if
that was what was meant. If there
was ever even a race at all, if there
were ever a place to call. Our scar
tissue healed way back there, when
the newer trees were yet saplings, and
the pond was yet a brook; before all
the silt and baggage backed it up.
-
I do not ever know how people can
talk so much about things they know
little of. Or how they can spout on
about things they know nothing of.
I put a colorful saddle on your pony.
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