Fences down, cattle wild,
my father warned, ‘Don’t
let the ranch run you—’
when it was like slaying
a dragon or stealing a ride
to dream of such control.
Armloads of cucumbers
like firewood to the kitchen
for pickling after boxes
of vegetables to give away
each morning, we could say
the same about your garden—
knowing that acreage
has nothing to do
with the life we choose.
Is there anything really like a fresh vegetable right off the vine? Sunshine and water and they flourish . . .
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It’s really a treat, plus a lot of satisfaction.
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‘Don’t let the ranch run you—’ easy to say.
With rain short, green grass a fleeting phenomena,
fear of wells running dry.
Fire stopped short, mowed a hundred foot around
at times precariously on the edge
doing everything I can to protect this ground
as if it were my kid
Although my saddle is harder,
I can still throw a rope
With Neighbors so great, the girls a blessing
I swear, I will never give up hope
Cross country hay,
watching the local shipped far away…
just what was it that dad used to say?
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Well done, Richard! I guess after awhile you get used to taking orders from the ground.
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