The colors run, an ocher sun,
Makes paces from an eastern sea.
The flower and the thistle both,
Arise to greet the lady's hand.
The skies alight, with joy and fright,
As all new seasons we first see.
The lover and the mother both,
Arise to track the eastern sands.
The brothers and their fathers run,
A race to summer, shame, and proof.
Their lovers and their mothers both,
Arise to cheers or grief-wrung hands.
The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat the frost.
Grown kin, mothers, fathers both,
Arise from knees to tend swelled lands.
Yet first snow falls, chill winds yet run,
The western moon alights, aglow.
Arise to meet the sun again,
To feed the suns and season's sands.
What's young, now old. What's old, to seed.
What's said, bound into songs we know.
And diamond snows hide colors past,
And steps swallowed from eastern sands.
Prompt: An equestrian anonymous asked me:
"The ponies run, the girls are young, the odds are there to beat."
Ah, for youth again... it was this or My Little Pony fanfic. Dash > you.
(C) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins