Pretty Little Horses

It was summer and I was sitting at the beach
just above the sand under the shade of an oak.
The breeze was blowing salt air and childish laughter
up into the leaves of the trees that rustled
with some quiet excitement of their own.
In my hand I had my latest library acquisition
a mystery of sorts, about a hidden carousel
and as I looked out across the bay
I could see the beach of Garder Park
like a smudge of brown on green.
Peeking out from the trees was a round
red roof, an old carousel roof that no longer
contained brightly painted mares and leaping
stallions, merely some dust and old brass rings.
They'd all been sold, auctioned off to people
who wanted a piece of nostalgia like an old
hand painted carousel horse so they could
think back to when they were young.
Even though the horses are gone,
from where I sit across the bay
I can still hear the laughter and I know
that though the horses are no longer there
a thousand happy memories remain behind
and it's those memories that make me smile.

December 5, 2002