SPRING GELDING

From a dark box stall, he emerges,

His winter-dead coat.

Dreary and dry,

It’s job now done.

The red gelding’s eyes,

Blinking, in the bright March sun,

Have seen thirty one summers.

He fills wide nostrils,

Draws in Spring’s promise,

Of blue skies, green grass,

Warm, cleansing rain.

Head lifted, neck arched,

Tail held high.

He stands tall.

Two hands taller.

In this brief moment,

He’s the Red Colt,

Gleaming,

Like a bright copper penny,

In the Spring of ‘91.

“Bud”