Ever so gentle, these waves of wild oats—
easy undulations into the wide swath
of bright-yellow White Mustard
in the disturbed ground
where we fed bulls
drought after drought.
If ever I could reinvent myself
as easily with storm after storm,
shake the slow walk and run
with breath aplenty, mind sharp.
Hazy days of snapshots flashing
uninvited or young among old men
now gone in the photograph
of the branding crew Rochelle took
when Craig was still alive
hanging on the bathroom wall
with south slopes of pure gold,
wet spring after the Drought of 1977.
Ever so gentle, these waves of memory,
stories only searching names,
ever so gentle, they come to me.
drycrikjournal 
Sweet forever memories. I had a crush on Jim Wells in elementary school. My Dad wanted me to marry Mehrten “Tookie” Homer (he didn’t know I existed), Earl’s music still rings in my soul, and I sang at Craig’s funeral. Sweet, gentle memories indeed.
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Amazing, isn’t it? And somehow those ‘in the moment’ flashes, though divergent, seem to tie themselves together on familiar paths in our minds. Thanks, Pearl, for your comment!
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Waves of memories…God’s gift to us!
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Indeed, Sheryl, how lucky are we as we age.
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Fantastic imagery! Thanks.
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You’re welcome, of course, Dan. Glad I could take you with me!
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Wow, John. This speaks to me so profoundly. Getting old can be so fucking sad. I hope you are both well. I think of you often. There is some chance that John Grant is going to visit us in May. But I’ll believe it when I see him. Thinking of you and missing the old days in Elko. Marla
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Ditto, but ‘so far’ better than the alternative! We’re both well and adapting, not straying too far from home.
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