I write through early morning, long before the day
intrudes upon the shadows, intent to have its say.
Words birthed in the nighttime never seem to quit.
They come like half-tamed horses, chomping at the bit.
They seem to have a power and meaning all their own,
where they complete their foaling before the seeds are sown.
Truth is there behind us before it ever shows—
like words before they’re spoken, and wind before it blows.
Before the morning opens, memories fully lit
are brought to life in wondrous tales, straining at the bit.
Brought swiftly to these different worlds to live a life apart—
far from the one who made them, like a horse without its cart.
I like to set my words free to canter on their own,
to feed upon the prairie grass that grows where it has blown.
The Ragtag Prompt was open.
Fandango’s prompt was memory.