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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