Monthly Archives: April 2013

                                                                                                    This town
                                                  is mine, and even out of the corner
                                                  of my eye, everything is in place
                                                  for me here at the edge, one man
                                                  rising and falling with the tide.
                                                                    – Quinton Duval (“III. Mariner”)

1.

She dictates the order of things now,
the imperatives of season, the slope
of earth and sun in circles over time

we follow—a plodding slow dance
that she allows as one last quest for grace
among cattle, grass and water—

you and I, silhouettes at the trough,
as a pair of crows discussing plans
and what we’ve done, each evening.

Time is nothing, no urgency exists
and contrary to my father’s
Thirteenth Beatitude: Blessed are

the slow afoot, for they shall never
get anyplace—we    are    home.
The meadowlark will sing at the gate,

the young bred cows will watch me
move water on the pasture
and we will make repairs along the way.

2.

We know her habits,
love to ride the swells of wet times
so we can dream of them
when she is dry:

Hand in hand we met the creek
pushing a raft of leaves—
we cried out like children
as raindrops streaked your cheek.

We may own the ground
she visits, clean house
and make her our mistress,
but we cannot make her stay.

We clean her house, fix fence
and water, make garden beds
full, just as if she were here
to hold us together.

3.

Roadrunners,
gophers and snakes choose
to live with us, and it’s easy
to tell who is who
when the quail pair-up,
break from the covey
to nest and raise babies.

Little man stands sentry
or prances goose-step,
breast out, top-knot bobbing
while she’s busy looking
in bushes and rocks.

On the porch,
down the steps
into the garden,
it takes days for her
to make up her mind
a twitter with the pros and cons
of all things domestic.

As knees creak before dawn,
I remember, calculate
nearly a quarter of a million bales
on and off a pickup—but
two hundred and fifty
truck and trailer loads
doesn’t sound like much
for a lifetime
of feeding cows
when as many claim
Highway 99 in a day.

Thirty bucks a ton for good,
clean hay when I started—
strong as a bull, mind free
to press the wire,
be anything I wanted.

First few bare steps
to make coffee,
I replay yesterday’s
slow circle, measure
each accomplishment
to lean forward
into today.

                    I was nothing
                    But a window sailing through the night.
                            – James Galvin (“Agriculture”)

And once a young cowboy full
of living wildly, the blow and snort
of bulls and horns beside me,
death was distant and I cried
war whoops of another tribe
long gone gray or pushing daisies.

We chased seasons in circles full
of fast bravado, reached and roped
the moment, tipped our glasses over—
and over around the fire,
to see our stories disappear, lifted
like stirred embers to the stars.

When old men can’t remember, they
seek good habits, look for grace
to emulate and plan ahead, calculate
the odds and go forth with a good
and steady heart, write down clues
for some young man to follow, or not.

Screen door open to early morning dark,
the floor seems to creak under bare feet
sneaking behind me, then stampedes to the roof

as she returns unannounced to surprise me.
I am always glad to see her, nod to the gods
and check the radar, check the forecast

to see how long she’ll stay this time.
I am, of course, a fool for her—always forgiving,
yet seldom forgetting her infidelities.

Even though I see in the dark with old ears
that spend more time rhyming with
what I want to hear than what’s said,

she brings no huff ‘n’ puff bluster of baggage,
no laundry to do—wearing only
a light yellow sundress for her short visit

to keep us all hanging on a fading hint of green.
She feels no guilt for being gone, for letting
our household go—dances in on little feet.

After you’ve lived with her awhile
and got along, got to know her
temperament, her sultry smile, her
rages and just plain forgetfulness,

you will come to know you don’t
have   much   say. You don’t even
have to understand why she gets
to make the rules that you obey.

It’s a strange relationship, hard
to be subservient and still write
love letters that try to stay
on the good side of her generosity.

She’s always full of surprises,
but after you’ve lived with her awhile
you begin to expect certain things
like fidelity, like a little rain.

The curse of words,
always looking for a home—
a place to light for a moment.

I nod off into a dream
as he fits a gold crown
over what he’s ground away

that begins with a dog
I don’t know—it could have been
anything in the distance calling

before I wake to latex fingers,
metal instruments in my mouth
and mumble something about

how dreams start—
like a poem
open to the rain.

It’s gray outside,
palm trees dancing
as fingers work together—

all I want are dreams and rain,
and just enough teeth to separate
the gristle from the meat.

                                                            for Darren Rich, D.D.S.