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| Grown Old
The saddle gathers dust these days, The bridle's on the wall, The barn has lost the scent of hay, There's no horse in the stall. My boots have truly lost their shine, My chaps have gotten stiff, And so have I, if truth be told, And all hangs on "What If?" -- What If some decades fell away, And I was young again, To ride the mountains and the hills And never feel a pain? What If the Herefords grazed again On long-remembered land, And when the time for round-up came I still could make a hand? What If again those days of old Became my present time, When I could do once more those things That I did in my prime? What If that backward turn of time Could truly come to be, Would I relinquish my today To be a former me? What If I'd rather stow the thought With boots and chaps and youth, And with perspective keep the dream As memory, not as truth? I've kept my store of younger times Bright-shining in my mind; I may not ride a trail again, But dreams are there to find. |
