TWO POEMS

RAISING HELL

We don’t talk about
the drought, anymore:
four years dry,

we have adapted
and survived our fears—
scratched for water,

sold half our cows—
but ready for storms
to raise some more.

WIND SONG

Perhaps we are cursed
to stay busy, put our shoulders
to the rock, embrace it—

move the planet
with small accomplishments,
little marks never permanent

that become our joy:
like new fence
guitar string tight

keeps neighbors strong,
picked by the wind
to play its song.