Summer grass

  

We're riding our horses, stopped for a photo holding hands 

Still in saddle 

You're a girl, i'm your father

There's two horses 

Two saddles, we reach out to hold hands 

As the mother of your future sisters 

Takes the photo 

The oaks around us one hundred, two hundred, three, four hundred years old 

Still there, survivors 

The seasonal spring just uphill 

Waters them year round

No fire, no lightning, no storm 

Halts the oak, though smaller trees are few to none for reason 

The mom of your sisters 

Saddled the horses, made sure we cinched the girdle 

Walked us up hill 

The cinch stayed tight 

The old camera was in focus 

The lighting was good in the canopy shade 

We're both smiling though I have a look on my face, seemingly as if 

Things are temporary, touch breaks as the horses draw apart 

Down hill to the paddock

They'll hurry even as summer grass they 

Enjoy never 

Runs out