Something is different in the air. A door
has creaked open on its squeaky hinge
and children with their new lunchboxes 
and thermoses rush in, 
pasting roughly cut out birds 
onto jagged branches of rusty trees, 
thin tissue paper leaves fluttering to pile 
on the earth in my memory.

The warmth of summer retreats,
gives way to flash cards and football, 
plastic totes and coat hooks
labeled with heat-sealed names.
Small chairs scrape Lysoled linoleum floors, 
students look shyly at classmates.  And I look out

upon the empty street where my own children stumbled 
and our black Lab streaked after tennis balls, 
at the rail we added when my mother grew unsteady,
and later when my father did as well. 

Now I am the old one on the block, 
planting for butterflies and bees, laying seed,
lighting the path for my own inescapable exit.

Cinnamon glints like small fires 
on the sleekness of the horse's neck 
in the late afternoon sunlight
as his head pulls right, straining 
to be free of the bit, 

to reach for grasses and the thistles 
that line the trail, and I pull back – 
a battle of wills - but he doesn't know
what's edible versus just green,
and it's my job to guide 

as the hills release their glow, and we are on the return 
leg of the ride where the corral and good hay await, 
and I'll dismount, saddle sore but fully alive 
to return to the schoolroom tomorrow, 
with faith (mostly) that I'll go home again.