It’s not easy for a young woman like her to feel like she belongs,
without a Mother, adopted, her head working the way it will,
different.
Everything is different about her.
But I know she’ll belong in the world,
because of the way she sits on a horse,
her rightful place,
a true home.
To some it must look like she’s working when she rides,
laser focus,
no missteps,
but I know she’s pumping out joy, carving a holy trail through forests,
over mesas and across beaches,
daring the world to say no to her just once,
so she can drill those mighty hooves in deep,
wiping away every cold look or closed heart
with the kick of her boots and a twitch of the reins.
When we pass a field of grazing horses
she sees a new cousin, a brother or sister,
on four legs,
waiting to meet for the first time,
and maybe ride to the edge of the day,
discover treasures that belong only to them
and those who ride like it’s the first song they ever heard.
Horses are with her when she dreams,
whether she remembers or not,
a herd that beds down in her heart,
ready to gather at dawn.
I know my daughter will belong everywhere horses run
and anywhere she can dream.
