The stallion reared and pawed the air,
with foaming mouth and cotton hair,
and I climbed up and grabbed his mane
with tiny fists-I loved the game.
He wheeled and kicked but I held tight
and squeezed my knees with all my might,
a bit afraid of all his moves
and fearful of his flying hooves.
I laughed and screamed and gave his flanks
a burst of quickly issued spanks
from walk to canter then wild run
and back until the ride was done.
The whinny of my favorite horse
is only memory, but a force
that guides my rides on different trails
through shifting sands and grueling gales.
And now that Dad is old and slow,
and all the rooms have grown so small,
I guess he'll have to bloat and blow
until the grandkids find his stall.