I find a horse in the back yard.
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 anxiety a task,
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.
(“A penny for your thoughts, I said in jest,
a quip to my mare although I kept it low.
This day it did appear that I was blest--
a dark, cold sky appeared to threaten snow.)
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.
I was surprised one chilly autumn day,
and thus in humble journal I did write:
How often does occasion come one’s way,
when naming such a pretty horse seems right?
(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.)