Tag Archives: verse

A winter’s dream

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He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, he sang a song of thanks.
He pressed his hands against the earth to feel
its quiet force, to touch the womb of his
own strength, to suck the scent of this, his home.

A dawn arrived so crisp and clear the light
beyond his walls crept in and kissed his eyes
awake.  The sun caressed his face and drew
him out, it seemed, with whispers soft and new.
The light was unlike any he had seen:
so brilliant, pure and sure it hurt his eyes;
so beautiful and strong he could not look
away.  He stretched his arms toward the sun
as if he meant to hold it close, embrace
the heat and press the light against his breast.

“I waited long for you.  I saw you in
my dreams.  I knew I’d love you when you came.”
He closed his eyes.  “And now that you are here,
I know you will not stay with me.  Your walk
along my path is short; your journey’s pace
is swift.  I know that you have danced across
the mountain tops, that you have run untamed
with horses on the distant plains, that you
have heard the secret songs of streams unknown.
I know you long for them again, so go.”

He bowed his head and smiled. “In dreams, I’ve held
you near a hundred times and not been burned.
Before you came, I touched your flame, embraced
your fire and felt the life that flows from you.”
He raised his face toward the sky again.
“I know it cannot be.  Your touch would mean
the end of me.”  He shook his head.  “I have
no want for life to live a dream or dreams
to come to life: to see your light today
is sweeter even than the dream.  Enough.”

He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, his heart was full of thanks.
His fingers wrapped around his flute and lips
blew happy songs of love: for light, for heat,
for hints of spring that dance within a dream.

The hunt

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The snow that hid between furrowed rows
collected somber whispers of early light
and lifted just enough of nighttime’s shroud
to make the going there a thing a man
could do.

……….. He stood a while, confused, unsure
of where to take a step.  “I’ve lost my way,”
He thought, “I’ve got to get a grip.”  He moved
his hands along the rifle stock to shift
the weight and ease the load.

…………………………….“I’m here.”
He heard his father’s voice again, still soft,
“I’m here.”

…………Then, from the gray, a form emerged
and walked ahead as if to lead the way.
He knew this form from years of watching it:
The heavy shoulders and hunting coat of red
and black; the heavy boots that marked a gait
as sure as it was long; the easy smile;
the eyes of welcome warmth; the air of grace.

“I’m lost,” he said aloud.  “And I’m afraid.”

The form, familiar, stood atop a rise
and turned to him.  “You’re where you’re meant to be.
You’re mine: You’re strong. We’ll hunt this land for years
to come. I’m just across this other side,
down out of sight, but you’ll still know I’m here.
You stay. Hunt here for now. And when time comes,
you follow me.”

……………..The sunlight broke the crest
as he watched his father slowly walk away

The snow that hid between furrowed rows
collected somber whispers of early light
and lifted just enough of nighttime’s shroud
to make the going there a thing a man
could do.

……….. He stood a while, confused, unsure
of where to take a step.  “I’ve lost my way,”
He thought, “I’ve got to get a grip.”  He moved
his hands along the rifle stock to shift
the weight and ease the load.

…………………………….“I’m here.”
He heard his father’s voice again, still soft,
“I’m here.”

…………Then, from the gray, a form emerged
and walked ahead as if to lead the way.
He knew this form from years of watching it:
The heavy shoulders and hunting coat of red
and black; the heavy boots that marked a gait
as sure as it was long; the easy smile;
the eyes of welcome warmth; the air of grace.

“I’m lost,” he said aloud.  “And I’m afraid.”

The form, familiar, stood atop a rise
and turned to him.  “You’re where you’re meant to be.
You’re mine: You’re strong. We’ll hunt this land for years
to come. I’m just across this other side,
down out of sight, but you’ll still know I’m here.
You stay. Hunt here for now. Ansd when time comes,
you follow me.”

……………..The sunlight broke the crest
as he watched his father slowly walk away.

Thanksgiving Day

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Beyond the steam that gently hung above

the plates of mashed potatoes, yams and corn,

she saw her mother’s face.  The misty veil

could not disguise the sorrow in her eyes

or hide the pain that creased her lips

and set her jaw in rigid, stoic lines.

….

She whispered, “Mom” and reached to touch

her hand.  “Are you OK?”

……………………………. A tired smile

came slowly in reply, then nothing more.

……

She took the plate of turkey, passed it through

the steam toward her mother’s empty dish.

She held the offer longer than she thought

she should, then put it down and looked around

the table: all of them were watching her.

Her children looked away.  Her sister wiped

a tear.  Her husband held her gaze – his way,

she knew, to give her strength.  But no one ate.

…..

Her mother said, “It isn’t right,” and turned

toward an empty chair as if to ask

for help remembering the thing that still

was missing – caught herself and shook her head.

…..

She thought she heard her mother sigh, and took

her hand again.  “What is it, Mom?  What’s wrong?”

She drew her breath in hard and asked,

“Is it because he’s gone?”

………..

……………………………. Her mother smiled.

“Oh no – he’s never gone.”  She smiled again

and said,  “He loved this day the best.  And how

he loved this meal!”  She stopped to scan the food

as if to find the thing she thought astray.

……

She caught her mother’s glance.  “Everything is here.

You’ve made it just the way he liked it, Mom.

Now can we eat?  It is what Dad would want.”

…..

“No, wait!”  Her husband stood and pushed his chair.

“I think I know the missing piece.  Hang on.”

He walked into the living room — a pause –

then came the call:  “The Lions have the ball.”

He sat again and, with a wink, he said,

“The game was always on.  Please pass the rolls.”

….

Her mother stood and moved toward the door.

She turned, came slowly back, then leaned to kiss

his head.  “I s’pose –” she stopped, then laughed and said,

“you know, I s’pose they’ll lose again this year.”

The view from the grave

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The prairie broke in a range of hills with sides

of layered rock and crests as flat as the plains

below.  We left the highway and headed north.

The paved road turned to gravel and, as it wound

its upward course, the gravel turned to dirt,

the dirt road narrowed, the piney forest closed

along the sides and the fading road became

a two-track.  When the two-track ended at

a washout, we stopped the truck, climbed out and walked.

The hillside where the road had ended fell

away and, taking it, we cut across

a valley of cactus flowers growing wild,

ascended the farther slope and found a stand

–a thicker, richer stand–of trees.  The air

was cool and moist among the fragrant boughs,

and pausing to rest and cleanse our throats of dust

we heard the flawless empty spaces sigh

a song of solitude and sweeter days

of untamed dreams and boundless chance.  We thought

aloud how such an open place was as near

to paradise as we had ever seen.  An hour

we walked the quiet hills for nothing more

than feeling them alive beneath our feet.

And then we saw it.

……………………… A tombstone, a modest stone,

with letters nearly lost to the wear of rain

and wind and snow.  My brother read the name.

“It’s Mrs. Otis Tye,” he said.  “She died

in January, 1882.”

….

“Out here?” I asked.

….

………………………. “I heard about them once,”

said he.  “The Tyes were settlers.  One winter night,

when Otis was away from home, the team

of horses got away and lost in snow.

Frontier gals being a hearty bunch, Ms. Tye

went out that night to fetch them back alone.”

……

“You gotta love a woman like that,” I said.

……

My brother nodded.  “Crying shame they gave

her his name on the stone.  She earned her own.”

…..

“The storm?”

…..

………………. “He found her on this very spot.

The house is standing yet, in part at least,

about a mile from here.”  He waved his arm

toward the east.  “It’s made of rocks from these

same hills.”

……..

……………. We stood alone among the rocks

and swallowed tepid water from our canteens–

a silent toast of sorts–and thought about

the turning of the circle.  Frontier graves

were simple things:  Her wooden box had long

returned to the earth from which it came, and she

was sure to follow close behind.  We knew

the life the hills had given her, the life

that fueled the fire in her eyes, was now the life

that filled these scented grasses, held these trees

against the prairie winds and helped to close

the sacred hoop.  We knew that it was right.

…….

I saw him squint toward the muffled calls

of far-off turkeys.  “Want to go?” I asked.

……

He shook his head and turned his face to feel

the arid winds that blew across the plains

and rose against the rocks.  “Let’s stay a while,”

he said, then smiled.  “The air’s so clean, so clear,

it is amazing what I see from here.”

Baptism and benediction on the Brule

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The trout ran strong and swift, the stream ran cold
and clear, and both ran past a pair of felt-
soled boots. The angler in the boots stood long
alone and watched the water rushing by.
The hair beneath his hat was graying, but
the hands that held his pole were still as thick and
hard as when they guided softer hands
and smaller boots down muddy banks to take
that first enchanting step on mossy rocks.
He turned and looked at tiny, gleaming drops
of sunlight dancing upstream where the boy
had caught a rainbow on a fly he’d tied
himself.  Around the bend, a little way
beyond where he could see, was where the boy
had caught his first and found his private joy.
He watched the water, waiting, aching to see
the colored pebbles that were not what they
seem rise through swaying shafts of light and hold
near ripples, glitter-capped and quick, until
they tap the surface, take a bite and flash
away.  He watched the Mayflies lift and fall
on gossamer wings that fluttered helplessly
against the breeze until they failed.  The frail
and floating insects, their genetic task
complete, returned the river’s gift.  He looked
across to where the boy and he had sat
to wait for countless suns to sink and call
the trout to rise.  There, in the cool of grass
still soft, still moist, still shaded by the trees,
the words were easy.  Fears had fallen there
and drowned beneath the current.  Dreams were born
and carried high on summer winds.  So sweet
was one, it swept away the dreamer–yet
no sweeter than the one that brought, and kept,
the other here.  The angler bowed his head
toward the stream and, smiling, waded in.

Firewood

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The glinting arch of sun on steel that split

the air absorbed the life of muslces warmed

with vernal heat and drove the axe head hard

against the wood.  Good blocks of oak he split,

and sweetly scented pieces lay asprawl,

prepared to yield their heat, their meat, to him.

The hands that held the axe were supple still,

though course to touch.  Their strokes were sure and quick,

and driven by the joyful ache of earnest love.

….

She said, “It’s time for me to go.”

……

………………………………………He stopped.

“What’s that?  I thought you had some things to do.

You know:  Some things to do up at the house.”

…..

“All done.”  She moved her eyes away from his

and whispered, “I’m all packed.”  She saw the axe

he held and laughed.  “What’s wrong with you?  You know

how fast the chainsaw is–”  He dropped the axe.

She watched it fall, and in the worn-out grip

she glimpsed the man as she had not before.

She paused, then set herself and said again,

“It’s time for me to go.”

……….

……………………………“The corn’s about

to come.”  He knelt as if collecting wood

and tried to steady failing legs.  He bowed

his head to hide his face and gasped against

a searing pain that started low and spread.

“This could be our best crop.”

……….

………………………………….“I have to go.”

……….

The hollow slap of sleet on pitted steel

that lay where it had fallen rose unheard

and died above the nearby fallow fields.

……….

The untouched handle, cracked and splintered, sunk

a little deeper in the mud.  The blocks

of wood, unstacked, unburned, and brown and soft,

now fouled the cutting winds with fetid mold.

The muscles warmed with vernal heat grew still

and cold in the grieving ache of earnest love.