a poem in my pocket

Best friendships can be 

fragile in first grade. The

dark-eyed boy lived in his

brown brick house only 

two blocks away from 

our yellow stucco, just

a short walk to play.

I accepted his shy,

unexpected gift of the 

ceramic Navajo woman

painted with raven black 

hair and azure skirt lying

in graceful folds around

the seated figure.  She

wore a squash blossom 

necklace, held a diminutive

basket of maize in her lap, 

and smiled delicately.

As I turned her over in 

my rapt, trembling hands,

she slipped to the sidewalk

and broke into ugly shards,

shattering our young hearts.

I fled home to Mom who gently 

tried to glue all my sobbing 

pieces back together.

Out-dated landmark peeling red paint, 

the wooden corn crib burned down late 

on monday morn after holding ripe ears of 

harvested gold, countless kernels of many

hard-working years. Could say it was arson

by the farmer and his son who poured on 

gas until the flaming roof fell in at last and the

surrounding snow dissolved into nostalgic tears.

This stockman understands his cattle well;

he knows each bovine personality.

If list’ning to the farmer’s show and tell,

you just might learn which traits he thinks are key.

It’s easy to see why he prized that cow;

her gentleness was evident to all.

She would not kick or ever cause a row;

when calving, she walked calmly to the stall.

That morning lay this black cow in the dust;

for farmer’s eyes a sadness to behold.

He kneels beside the vet, whose words he trust.

No more fine, healthy calves from her be sold.

All creatures are destined to die at last.

We grieve, yet grateful, for a life well passed.

Did the tourism bureau

neglect to mention

that in our fair state

expect to experience

four distinct seasons:

freezer burn,

flood ‘n mud,

swelter belt,

dust or bust  ?!