DRY CRIK Journal

No more Paul Bunyan dreams
of recreating landscapes, no ‘nod
and throw’ replays out of the box,

no horsehair hung in shiny rowels
to reprove yesterday – that fearless muse
sparks the rhymes of youth.

No hurry now, no impossible task
to subdue, to submit to, to tell the crew
each time wilder. I can see

myself farther off, out of this flesh
in your eyes, in the timbre
of each word. I flex inside

but grin, non-plused – listen like
your day was just another sunset
in this canyon – but keep it alive

with moustache rising. Then I beg
for details of terrain, of the cattle,
to picture it again.

We are so childlike,
even as old men grinning
among the young, strong hearts

so seldom sure - no guarantees,
but paying attention
to a lifetime’s run of good luck.