The Old Tire Horse
The old tire swing that resembles a horse
Hangs under the tall maple tree.
The children no longer climb onto his back
And he looks a bit lonely to me.
At one time my girl rode into the wind
On make-believe trips through the town.
She needed a boost to get onto her roost
And a helping hand to clamber down.
A few years later, my boy took the reins
And galloped to far-away places.
His short legs a-straddle the horses’ broad saddle,
He and the breezes ran races.
But my children grew tall and the horse remained small.
Now he swings in the winds of November.
Does the horse, just like me, think of what used to be?
Looking back, does he smile to remember?
–Blanche Day Manos
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