Horseman Silver
| Horseman Silver once there was a horseman, with a quarter horse knitted to his back, grey Stetson, tilted back so sunshine bristled on his brow smoke escaping from his nose wild horses galloping out of his mouth a bit of bellicose brag reined in for his woman who parked her pointer finger, sideways above her eagle eyes to search his horizon but, oh, in the back rooms of the wheat elevator chaff sidestepping on stray sunbeams running a ragged race to tell the tallest story of finest thoroughbred thoughts, running against the next best for their trophy none of them had been in a saddle for years but their gnarled stories recalled the pull of a pioneer wagon behind plow horses and a white sail across the prairies, over the rocky passes, when they were yearlings to married life and a mention of free land it was never free grandfather you broke your back to it, and her, with her wilds dreams of a hoe and hearth and baking bread in a real oven, raising children under a well-shingled roof, and forcing a garden out of hard earth while the mares foaled and she did, to add weight to this new place half-broke geldings scuffed fresh riders off in the branches of the poplar boundary of the farm-turned-ranch you two carved out in the country you landed boots first in where the muck of milk cows waited on promised hay and a gentle hand while you rode off into dust to dust I hold it, here, the deed of fine land ownership of a generation of foals, pictures of a young man and a woman astride similar star-faced, half-starved mounts frozen and leaning against a rotted corral waiting for the click of tongue to roof of mouth to race back with its memories I hold the sweater to my face and feel the prickly heat of stubble that has been chewed down by the equine teeth of packing a heart into hard trails made by man and horse until I rock in the saddle hanging on to your back like a princess being saved by a knight of necessity your voice sings, “Oh, Give Me A Home”, and the hill hears it memorizes the meanings of a man made from sway-back stories of riding a rough range to make a tall tale for a green-broke granddaughter riding a saddle-like porch swing all the way to your stalled heaven Poem By Carol Desjarlais |
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