Four Years Old

I hide on the balcony 
outside my room, hope 
I will not be found.
In my hands, held tight 
to my breast, are my
dearest possessions—two small
plastic horses, one red, one black.
I had misbehaved.
My tiny horses were to be taken 
away for what seemed forever.

Sixty Years Old

I gaze out my window
as the horses graze—
one chestnut, one black.  My memory 
hangs onto those tiny plastic horses, 
symbols of what is most dear to me 
now—the people I love.  
Some have already been taken
away forever.
I want to hide again, 
clutch those precious to my breast, hope 
they will never be found.

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