The Horse in My Brush

THE HORSE IN MY BRUSH
Cathe Ferguson
January 2009

I took my mare out for a ride;
the thrill I felt can't be described,
for who can put to words a thrill
and explain its pleasantries at will?

I ran my hand through her thick hide;
the thrill I felt can't be denied,
yet, though I tried, I could not tell
for mere words don't express it well.

So I went home to paint and brush
and mixed sienna, bay, and blush,
then painted hoof and mane and tail,
and winds to blow along the trail--

I painted turns on supple haunches,
pasterns, and the hock that launches
jingling shanks and creaking leather,
and riding days of perfect weather.

I took the shade of stable gray
and painted restful hooves in hay
and mixed the hue of oat and weed
to add the crunch and smell of feed.

When I was through my painting neighed
and at least a thousand pounds it weighed!
Life's scented breath was in its nose
and now my thrill the world knows--!