by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When I was young
I yearned for a pony,
a brown, bushy-maned,
fast-stepping pony:
One that I could let
have his head
and taste what freedom
really was.
When I was older,
I told everyone
I was going to marry
a man from the West
that owned a horse ranch.
Now I’m getting too old
to ride horses,
but can watch herds
of wild horses
in the West —
if they can keep
from getting caught
and made slaves out of;
they are the freest
of all horses,
like birds
who are the freest
of us all.
fourwindowspress 