Knotty-pine rails and shorn winter grass,
pastures wandering aimlessly,
subdued air chewed to the quick.
Puddles notch the ground
(rough-hewn mirrors of regret)
at the hushed gate where he waited.
The morning of the horse’s passing,
a rickety world presents itself,
clouds cobbled together
in a pale and unfinished sky.
C.G. Thompson was once owned by a tall pony who was kind enough to listen to her talk about poetry. Sadly, he passed away before any of her poems about him were published. She had hoped to read them to him. He continues to be an inspiration.
We’re alone, for now.
Her dusty mane dances, muscles ripple in her neck, but her saddle remains unmoved.
Unleash the buckles! Cut the rope! every part of me screams.
My right boot scrapes against the gritty trail, refusing to lift.
Her rider returns, mounts.
Feeling the weight, I slump away.
A storyteller at heart, Sara fans the writing flames in young people as a BAWP Teacher Consultant at UC Berkeley. As founder of MindMyEducation.com
she helps students take charge of their education, so they can write the stories of their lives instead of simply playing the roles laid out for them.