Rocking Horse

Child, your words climb

to his waiting ears

as your feet surprise

the broken grass.

You shout the perfect sun

and birds freshly born.

Dunking in the breeze,

you return butterflies

to the punctured moon.

Come,

lead him

to the fields. There

white horses of evening

 run their terminal race.

And time rocks,

the unmoving chase

of an eternal rhyme.

First published in The Oakland Review, Volume XLVII, 2022