He carried hay for the good and lame,
This day my horse is strong,
Even if I need to till it in the rain.

Knowing me, my hand, my touch;
Our bond, our feat, our fear,
Till to evening, out of breath and such.

It’s a laugh, and a cry not to be free,
At hand what all the work we had,
The life I’ll have, for one who gives.

Only in the hopes that it lives with me,
His life abound from birth, and now his worth,
He helped and did it, and never asked to save me.

He did, as everyday was for our day,
Shall I ever ask, if even more,
But to ask, to have another day.

Oh how I wish for he the same,
For such growth, the heart and land,
This is, a horse with a name.

©2007, Ron Globe