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!