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The Braid
In my garage in town
my saddle rests on its rack, its white fleece pad
still in place underneath, molded
to fit into gullet, under knee rolls,
washed one last time just before
my last horse died. The fine black harness
is there too,
hanging from hooks
placed on the wall studs years ago,
backpad, traces, breastcollar,
with just a touch of patent leather trim.
In a basket, summer and winter hard hats—
black velvet bowls that saved my life
once or twice—
in another basket, grooming tools,
brushes, oval curry combs, even a tube
of wound ointment, dried up now
I suppose. Near that, over the basket’s edge,
a braid of baling twine
hangs looped
through the end of a metal hoofpick.
In another life, you did that one day—
made those braids—
and handed them to me
with that Look-what-I-did grin.
We’ll never lose another pick again,
you said.
Marydale Stewart is a retired college English teacher, librarian, technical writer, and artist in Illinois, Kansas, and Colorado. She now lives in Illinois.
Her chapbook Inheritance was published in 2008 by Puddin’head Press in Chicago. She has poems in The Aurorean; in that magazine’s broadsheet The Unrorean; in The Foundling Review, After Hours, and forthcoming in River Oak Review.
Email: Marydale Stewart
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