I am asked, often, if I love to ride.
I say yes because there is not much else to say.
But I do not love riding.
It is impossible to love such an automatic, ingrained part of myself.
As you do not love to breathe, so I do not love to ride.
Every Saturday night I walk through these gates.
I take it all in: the nickers, the hay-smell, the solid form of the horse beneath me.
I do this because something within me knows that this is good, right, calming, just as breathing is.
As you do not love your heart, so I do not love a horse.
Ever since I was small, there have been horses.
They have steadied me, encouraged me, amazed me.
They keep me going when I want to stop, just as a heart does.
As you do not love your conscience, so I do not love horses.
I carry with me, always, the lessons horses have taught me.
Patience, humility, dedication, triumph, so many shaping experiences come from them.
They are always with me, always guiding me, as a conscience is.
I do not love to ride because love is complicated, love is flighty.
Horses were not something I fell in love with.
From the beginning, as early as I can remember, they were a part of me.
Horses, and riding, are so entwined in me that to love them would be to love my very cells.
YOU ARE READING
The Dump
PoetryA place for all the random stanzas that flow through my mind. My life in free verse. I try to write at least one poem a week, so they will be added as they're finished. In the meantime, PLEASE comment. Praise is nice, but constructive criticism help...
