Mount's Prize
by Slippers
- provided for use on SirJeff's Ponygirls.
- do not use without the author's permission.
If the harness is set too high, or the bridle is too big,
The straps will chaff along the nose, and crush against the lip.
The nostrils quickly catch the scent of leather, worn, and worn,
Blocking out the Mane and Tail you washed with earlier that morn.
Society's conventions aren't what bind you in this place,
You're free to call it sweat along your lower back and waist.
Soaking wet you pull the cart, you clench your teeth and grit,
Digging hooves into the soil, and foaming at your bit.
Another hill looms up ahead; you cannot see the top,
Your rider "Whoas" your body still, and brings you to a stop.
The rider is not passive here, but active in your care,
Soft words and soft caresses, brushing back your stringy hair.
Instead of soft surrender though, what glistens in your eyes
Is duty, and defiance, after some unspoken prize.
The mane gets tossed, the hooves bite deep, and one foot at a time
Bathed in sweaty encouragement, your cart begins to climb!
And slowly down the lee side, your gait is now a prance,
With overflowing feelings that only Rider understands.
The garden hose and rag wash the sweaty muck away,
You pose as Rider regales all of what you've done that day.
Crying, laughing, you and rider closer than before,
For you saw not just a hilly mound, and conquered far, far more.
Not to tame a mountain, but to tame yourself, the goal,
And with every ounce of sweat you've bought another pound of soul.