Seasons

– for my red pony

We leave hoof prints

in the soft mud

of early spring,

before the bursting

of bugs and buds.

Summer rises

to meet us as we soar

the green field toward

the blue parachute of sky,

never reaching it.

Yellow stalks of corn

clatter in the wake of autumn

leading us to white fields

of snow, barren, but

flecked with rainbows

of light and memory.

– apaul 2013