by Glenda Council Beall
Stickers tear my legs, bare and tan
from summer sun. Long black braids
fly behind me as I sprint like a Derby winner
down the path.
Harnessed with hames, bridle
and blinders,
Charlie plods along the farm road.
Tired and wet with sweat,
he is perfume
to my nostrils.
My father swings me up.
I bury
my hands in tangled mane.
My thighs
stick to leather
and damp white hair
high above the ground.
I want to sing in glorious joy,
but only croon a child's nonsensical
tune, grinning for a hundred yards
between field and barn.
My father's arms are strong.
His hands are gentle.
The horse
is all we ever share.
For he has sons, and I am just a daughter.
Glenda-your words are so powerful and in such perfect creative order-that is seems I can see you and your father riding the horse as plain as day.
ReplyDeleteGreat poem--very visual, as always!
ReplyDeleteI also share your knowledge that your father was closer to his sons. Mine was, also, to his son. I am the 2nd of 3 daughters. Years later, I am the favorite child! Who knew?