The Saddle

The Saddle
　
The old swells are cracking a bit
And the cantle worn near clean through.
It’s a wonder it all holds together
After so long of doing what it was made to do.

It’s never been oiled up
To hang listlessly on a rack.
Every so often it gets dusted off
With the rest of the battle-worn tack.

The sixteen-inch cantle shows tree
Where the leather’s been worn down good.
This old saddle is still fighting to hang on
To its leather, rawhide and wood.

The basket-weave pattern
Once stamped with such care
Is now only a faint trail of memory
To those who know it was there.

The horn bears marks of the dally
And the fenders are scarred up well.
The chunk taken out of the skirt
Hints of a story to tell.

There’s a row of notches carved into the right swell,
No one really knows what they mean.
Everyone’s got their hopeful illusions
Of what the first rider had seen.

Many a calf has been slung across its seat
And a few kids have learned to ride.
It’s slick-seated and polished from wear
And it smells of horse sweat and hide.

Once someone added silver conchos
And the stirrups have both been replaced,
The saddle strings barely hold a bedroll
And the maker’s stamp has been erased.

Whether it’s a branding or a calving ride
Or raking down a salty horse
This old saddle has never once failed
To keep a man head-on with his course.

It’s a saddle made for riding
Or even living in if that’s your way,
The blood and sweat and tears ground in deep
For tomorrow and yesterday.

The hard but loving hands that cinched up
Are now old and brittle with age,
But the stories and the memories that old saddle holds
Just won’t fit on a page.