I will usually choose the worn and threadbare
fumbling in the dark to dress, a favorite shirt
wearing yesterday’s fence repair and branding
blood, due respect for its endurance, as if
it had a soul, the comfort ours given purpose
beyond good looks that the old cows recognize
at a distance—a ceremony, almost like a prayer
before I face the anticipated angle of the sun,
season after season. No one cares, out here—
no one judges prosperity or intelligence
by what we wear. For poetry or life in one place,
just the proper fit of word and deed.
drycrikjournal 