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Best of Times - Worst of Times
5:30 A.M. Sun spreads yawning fingers of golds and reds Across oceans of glass Caressing the sands and stretching to the road to greet me While the gulls’ wings send ripples of warm mist to wake me The horses bolt from the barns and race to the ends of the meadows Lost in a moment of freedom too, alone, nostrils gourging on the fresh morning air I hear the awaking with my eyes and feel the new day Already rushing past, too fast
5:30 P.M. Close the door and fire ‘er up, For now we’re free, Once again breathing - Exhaust. Stop lights. Reds and yellows Camouflaged in the dawn; Hidden in this morning’s mist; Glaring, daring, painful, no longer warm. On the back roads again, the horses remember And race to the end of the pasture; the day. Almost there buddy, they’ll be time to rest anon; Till the dawn awakens us And intoxicates us with her promise, And we ride into it, Anew
Tim Hayes jsphhy@comcast.net
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