A Bed of Clover

Listen to Jerry read A Bed of Clover

Beneath a bed of clover
      below the melting snow,
      the thundering hoof beats
      of wild horses resound,
           liberated from encumbrances,
           unbound from harness and halter,
           free from fenced-in pasture.
      An ethereal presence is felt,
      roaming and galloping
      through meadow and wood
beneath a bed of clover.

Beneath a bed of leaves
      decaying layer on layer,
      lie remnants of the past,
           a maze of earthen smells forgotten
           horses with whom
                our bonds have diverged,
      trails we took and didn’t take—
      all decaying layer on layer
beneath a bed of leaves.

Beneath a bed of hay
      memories slip away to dust
           of horsemen who came and went,
           of creatures of the wild,
           of sights and sounds
           of whinnying friends—
      all sought to offer balance,
      they now lie fast asleep
beneath a bed of hay.

Beneath a bed of grass
      each blade gives up its life,
      yet gives life.
           Tiny oaks begin their push
                to reach morning light,
           crickets chirp,
           lilies free their bonds,
           mares give birth to foals.
      The compost of our past transgressions
      forms fodder for new life.
      Our roots spread deeper as we draw
      rekindled strength
beneath a bed of grass.

Upon a bed of clover
      all things old are born anew,
           as fillies and colts, without a blemish,
           ascend to the sun
           to start once more with shackles gone,
           to stretch and touch their dreams.
      A new beginning comes,
      with forgiveness and rebirth,
      rooted deep and pressing out
upon a bed of clover.

Beneath a bed of clover,
      beneath a bed of leaves,
           beneath a bed of hay,
      beneath a bed of grass,
upon a bed of clover.

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