The Banjo and The Pony
As I remember, it was near Christmas
and my father let me choose.
One was a mammal, and I was just seven
so I chose the one with hooves.
But sometimes I heard that banjo unchosen
when I lay down in the dark
and I swear that the notes rang
like the hooves of my pony
as I rode him across our farm.
My pony he grew into a stallion
and he ran so fast it stung.
Fireflies died against my chest as we’d ride
and wind blasted hard through my lungs.
But where was the banjo I’d forsaken?
Where were the notes I’d never played?
Sometimes I’m sure we all are haunted
by the songs that got away.
~Wolff Bowden & The Winterlings
