Out on the back patio,
my daughter rides her rocking horse.
I watch her through my kitchen window,
swinging so far forward
the tip of the horse’s nose
taps the astro-turf
covering the floor of the screened-in porch.
 
The springs squeak a twangy tune.
The plastic horse quakes
with each plunge,
hairline cracks threatening to burst.
Her blond hair flies
forward over her face
then back, through the air,
a high arc of curls
landing with a soft glance
on the back of her cowgirl pajamas.
 
Her three-year-old feet curl over the pegs.
Her hands grip the horse’s plastic mane.
She grunts each time she forces forward
with all of her eternal might.
“Huh!” she shouts,
her belly firm.
She’s full of her own self.
 
She imagines
the other riders cannot catch her;
she has left the cavalry far behind;
the bear she is chasing is not far ahead.
Her gal-pals flank her
and their steeds also sweat and snort
in their long strides.
 
“The cookies are ready,” I tell her,
but my girl does not break stride.
For the moment,
she and her trusty charge
have other plans.


© by Carol Anne Perini.
Used here with the author’s permission.