I was cantering in the arena — balanced, smooth and relaxed.  Three strides before the corner, Jackson bucked.  Caught unaware and unprepared, I was tossed to the side of the saddle.  As I scrambled back up, the next buck lifted me further off balance.  I let go, pushing myself away from his shoulder and dropping to the ground.  The sand was hard.  It hurt.  Jackson slid to a confused stop and stared at me with questioning dark eyes.


You chose the other;

The wife and children, the known.

I let you go.


Desert Living

As I sink deeper into the arid years
  of menopause,
I feel my dry, cracked skin
  and cheeks red rough 
    from working in the wind.
I am a walking Sedona;
a scorched
rocky, brown
bleached bone
A hard packed hot flash.
I am an agave
 growing in an arroyo
    collecting dust and grit
    in the spines of my thick flesh.


I remember my moist youth
  soft, yielding flesh
  damp from swimming.
Sitting in the back seat of your car;
  the sweaty heat rising 
   off my chlorine drenched skin.
Burying my face in your neck
  and inhaling the musky aroma.
The windows foggy from
  our breath.

Oh yes!
I remember the moisture
  of my youth.

I wrote this poem using a prompt from Margo’s Tuesday Tryout on Poetic Counterpoint.  I have to say that I had no idea the poem would end up going the direction it did — not my usual style, that’s for sure!