My Old Saddle

My Old Saddle

My Old Saddle

Like a heavy rose in silver and leather

Every stitch a life, thirty-three pounds,

In cow hide, veined by fields

In the foothills of Alberta,

Reined and grained by waving wheat,

Watered by a woodland creek,

Nourished by the mouths of cattle,

Shaped by the hands of an artist

Tooled in flower and leaf.

That old saddle

Rode.

 

We trotted.

Mule, rider, and saddle;

Taut in a padded, black suede seat

Relaxed, eager and ready,

Flanked by silver studded eyes

That smiled skyward

From that chestnut leather,

Golden, with that hard horn of happiness

Freedom in that roping saddle,

We cantered

With a good and gentle cantle.

From that soft arising swell

Of vibrant, equine, musty smell.

The saddle lathered as

We galloped.

 

My mule’s back swam in padded fleece

Muscles floating the saddle from underneath.

The side skirts swelled

Buckles and stirrups yelled

The trail ride refrain

We’re doing it again!