Getting There

This entry is part 25 of 47 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2012

This horse chafes at the bit: it wants
no rider, only its own hard will astride

the saddle, urging the road to go faster,
the encroaching landscape to spin into a blur

greener than hummingbirds at the feeder.
Do you wonder why it always seems faster

coming back? Speeds clipped by cobblestones,
by stops and starts, false obstacles— why

does it take so long to get there?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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