Surprised, they were glad to see us,
remembered green alfalfa leaf
and came with half-grown children
out of the brush, the canyons,
off ridges to follow
without a thought of escaping.
We are family, know the routine:
dear cowboys and cattle,
me and my machine.
Early morning gathers to wean our calves interrupt the blogging routine, along with age and rising temperatures as we acclimate towards summer. My son is down from the City, welcome and valuable help, good company and humor, we’ve kept him busy since Saturday. My head is full of unfinished poems, taking a backseat to the work at hand.
Our white Echinopsis has begun to bloom under gray skies and the light was fading when I thought of the camera. Because of their placement on the deck, perspective complicated the process, but with interesting results, I think, through the railing.
Native of South America, there are 129 known species of Echinopsis.
We hold our breath
Memorial Day weekend
winds up, hear
the gears whine,
feel the speed
barbed wire either side—
listening for the abrupt,
the certain screech
as you fade up the canyon.
We pray for your mother.
This post begins the new category of ‘DECK POEMS': John & Robbin’s evening collaborations.
Too young to be wise within
the great old barn Homer built
to hold dry-land hay before the bales—
pulleys and rail, tall mangers either side
for teams of horseflesh, wooden floor
tourist cameras never see.
From the rafters of rough-cut fir
the world is small, the only light
leaks under eaves.
Cost too great to restore my dreams
of slower days and longer nights,
I wonder—wherein wisdom reigns.