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My Mount


MY MOUNT

With many miles behind me,
And twice that yet to come,
I’m shifting in the saddle
To change what’s getting numb.

My mount is striding gently
With an ever-present thump,
And an ox’s share of traveling ware
Strapped across her rump.

She wasn’t bred for swiftness,
Though sluggish-slow she ain’t;
She’s rushed me through some canyon trails
Where “quicker” breeds would faint!

She’s dragged me ‘cross the deserts where
I’d swear we both would burn;
She’s plodded through the drifting snow
To bring my safe return.

These years she’s earned my reverence,
So when a stranger bold
Suggests to me I sell her soon;
“After all, she’s getting old.”

I aim that stranger toward the gate
And buckshot toward his end;
And clarify to one more guy
You just don’t sell a friend.

Picture of Wes Stephenson

Wes Stephenson

Author, motorcyclist, poet, and adventurer. Let's journey together.

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