Hers, not Ours

At dark we left, my daughter and I,

And three horses in the trailer behind.

To travel across this great land I so love,

And spend Thanksgiving with my sister so dear.

Two horses would pay the fare for our trip,

Another, a rescue mare, would go to my sister.

I didn’t see Wyoming, just felt her power,

As she blew across the interstate,

Pulling a blanket of storm behind us.

She finally let go as we slipped through her border,

Into Nebraska whose corn fields were rolled up,

And stacked into fodder for her creatures fair.

From a cold, cold sleep, but rest for the horses,

We woke and blossomed into Iowa’s sunshine,

The sunrise shone pink and red on the horizon.

Sixty degrees in the middle of November!

Expansive farms flow over the hills of Illinois and Indiana,

Gifts for all as they provide the food for our tables,

So interesting to notice the designs of the barns,

Each one designed for specific regions.

Into Pennsylvania, the history comes alive,

In the hills at the gas stations, the Amish women,

Run the errands fill the gas cans buy the thread,

While the men sit in the buggies, holding the reins.

Then to my sisters, we pull up the drive,

Her hair has grown thick, her body filled out,

I hug her and feel more than bone.

She has came carrying a bucket of apples,

And our rescue mare, Lady, becomes hers and not ours.