He’s midnight black with
steely eyes, on hooves so
light they make no sound
as he sails and spins, and
gallops with trees in the wind.
Cut from a worn tire, his frayed
mane and tail replaced with
new purple cord, sometimes
years pass between pony rides
for children. An old campaigner
is still treasured, as those horses
who nicker and prance. Though
we’ve grown too big for his saddle,
honor a proud breed that carried
us far, this rubber monument to
a girlish phase never outgrown.