Cleaning the Saddle by Taylor Graham

I take a rag and wipe away the dust.
The leather’s dry. I rub in saddle soap
in swirls from swell to cantle. Touch of rust
on metal. Scuffs and wear marks. Heels and rope

and smell of horse long gone –
those canters, leaning with the stride
of Molly-black mare. But a girl
grows up, away

from horses; keeps the saddle for awhile.
It’s time to clear out memories and space.
I wonder what this old brown leather’s worth.
I take a rag and wipe away the dust.