I scanned this picture, remembering–
mm . . . remembering how Goldy made me hate riding,
how my enchanted love was turned to fear and disdain
in one youthful summer and fall.
What my grandpa was thinking, I’ll never know.
Is it that throw ’em in the pool and see ’em swim kind of instruction?
Was it an ignorance of what thirteen-year-old horse lovers know?
Was he trying to cure me to give my parents a moment’s peace from begging?
Well, it worked. Cured!
To a furious lover of all things horse,
he gave me an animal that required a choke bit and blinders
because she was hard to control and reared at every groundhog hole.
And now here is poor sister, having mounted, excited for a first ride:
Goldy petulantly tears off through the front field, across the drainage ditch,
on and on; and on and on and on and on;
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