Boots Waiting

Boots stand watch beside her bed, with socks and jeans waiting.
She’ll be ready to go before the sun is,
ordinary life being measured in time spent away from Horses,
because when she’s riding,
she leaves time behind.

She may grow up without a Mother,
and without much advice from God,
but she’ll never be without a Horse,
not ever.

Sometimes I catch her smiling
with a far away look.
I know she’s talking to the Horses,
dancing across a mesa,
speaking in the freedom tongue they know.

I think they’re all there when the sun sets,
Horses and the people who share their spirit,
remembering, dreaming, breathing life into each other.

When my daughter rides she travels a litany of hoof prints,
praying for another day,
saying yes, thank you, I understand glory now,
riding so goodness will be born anew in a place that doesn’t make goodness easy.

My prayers sound different, but I pray for the same things.

Every night when she goes to bed her boots are there,
with her socks and jeans waiting.