rosepoems

silver and small,
the flying horse lived
as a token of seven years
upon the earth
upon my hand
it remained, a loyal friend
staying small as I grew
a shiny horse, still and frozen
always there until
it slipped away
perhaps tossing and turning
at night, or twirling at daybreak
or running at sunrise
it flew off of my pinky finger
the only one it fit, it must have
finally decided
to fly away