Heading east toward the returning sun,
Chill darkness retreating before the day,
I thought of hard round marbles lost and won.
A boy's game of skill and daring to play.
Bravado of youth risking precious stones.
Dead eye aim, shoulders tense, then a thumb flick;
Perfect orbs rolling, seeking fast to own
The target, easing alongside and click,
That one too becomes mine in my pocket.
My treasure, smooth like glass, won fair and square,
Stash'd away safe with my victory set
With those special ones never play'd and rare.
Eastward at dawn, when dreams are possible,
I drive and smile, remembering marbles.
Copyright 2010
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