Mare America

Out in the back she was tied to a maple,
and she appeared to be thoroughly bred;
she looked so strong--a furlong race staple,
so I went over and patted her head.

Having just ended my working day hard,
arriving home with intentions to bask,
seeing a gift horse right there in my yard,
was something more than I ever could ask.

“What is your name?” so I asked of my horse;
she didn’t answer, still she remained tame.
So it was then as a matter of course,
I realized that my horse had no name.

She shook her mane and she jiggled her tail,
I got a blanket to cover her back.
“You’re such a beauty,” my words would prevail,
“Maybe it would be right to name you Black.”

But then she looked at me with her big eyes,
and somehow I knew disapproval was there;
life form to life form can be a surprise,
communication can come from a mare.

Name after name I decided to try--
all appellations left her quite unmoved;
but when I then pulled America  out,
she showed her teeth, so I knew she approved.

Out in the back runs a horse so unfettered,
my thoroughbred, and in freedom she’s clad;
she has a name so properly lettered,
and I can see she is thoroughly glad.


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