Roots

As I dreamed beneath the waxing moon
I rode a fine buckskin quarter horse
in a meadow lush with penstemon.
Geese hung from the sky honking out
Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody I memorized
as a boy. The wind blew crisp at my back.
As the buckskin flew I leaned to wrap my
arms around his neck. It was then I could
see he had the face of my father. A voice
shot up strong from the roots of my dream:
Horses always know the way home. 
 
 
 

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4 Comments

  1. patriciaspreng on July 13, 2012 at 1:12 pm

    Good one, John… a beautifully captured dream.

  2. Bonnie Grove on July 13, 2012 at 4:59 pm

    Flee. Flee away home.

  3. Kathy on July 14, 2012 at 10:32 am

    I only have tears and no words for this…

  4. Teresa Evangeline on July 19, 2012 at 1:24 pm

    This is one of the finest poems I’ve read in a while. I suppose I shouldn’t make comparisons to others, but it reminds me of Mary Oliver with a hint of the masculine. A lovely combo. When I was a child, I rode a horse often and it was a buckskin.

    I arrived here via Practicing Resurrection. 🙂

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