PERMANENT PASTURE

IMG_0281

 

Near the Solstice,
my irrigation water languishes,
lollygags in the pasture
of short-cropped green
and a few too many cows—

soaking and absorbed
fifty yards shy
of the wilting end
to my temporary world.

Fifty years ago,
my mother’s father
curtly admonished me,
forever instilled
that nothing is permanent.

After a dark night
of chasing dreams,
I wonder if death
is nothing—
nothing more
than a good sleep
while the water runs
to pasture’s end.

 

4 responses to “PERMANENT PASTURE

  1. Nothin’ prettier than black/black baldies on green! Hang in there, John!

    Like

  2. I really like that last stanza. Especially
    “nothing more
    than a good sleep
    while the water runs
    to pasture’s end.”

    Like

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