Clouds hover above the misty sandstone bluff;
the late April drizzle shivers
cold lonesome rain outside my paned window.
I curl my arms around me holding the warm inside
as foggy mists encase our weathered beaten red barn.
Remnants of winter patched in springtime mud,
slowly vanish under a shuddering and pushing wind.
A rancher’s horses neigh their wild cry
to the rhythms of a wildflower wind.
Wandering by curled barbed wire, confined under wide open skies,
their carefree spirit blends with mine, setting no path, no direction.
I listen with careful abandon to my long lost heart;
a scattering of indifference I no longer wonder about.
Your cowboy heart, weathered and restless
as the saddle that carries you through pinion and silver sage
to the mountains where solitude cries its own anguish.
Mine, stoic like silver green sagebrush,
has become wiser, lovelier,
as life pulls me back and I take a deep breath.
Le petit lapin espiègle à la veste bleue vous a toujours séduit par ses facéties et vous souhaitez en savoir plus sur celle qui lui a donné vie, ce blog vous ouvre la porte du monde fascinant de Beatrix Potter
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An Empyrean Cycle
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