Lunge With Martha

Tell me again how you raised up

in the stirrups, held on tight

with your thighs, riding the colt

in circles with me as anchor

holding the lead and spinning

on my heels. Did you canter or

trot? I can't tell the difference,

but our Arabian didn't kick

or try to throw you that day.

Could you feel strength in my back,

arms, shoulders, through the line?

I see you now bouncing in black

and white, as in a film or poem:

I, the hero, would never let go.