Poem: Hard Hot Winter

 

                                  A man dreams of a country he has

                                  never visited. He knows

                                  the house; the heft of the door’s

                                  handle; he can recite these

 

                                  fragrant names. He can pick out

                                  ancestors; he can curl

                                  like a quiet cat and be whispered

                                  awake. A man dreams of a country

 

                                  he has never visited and calls it

                                  home, culling the pieces

                                  of the long road to morning. All

                                  things relate; all patterns

 

                                  are part of a history, written

                                  or not, spoken with the passionate

                                  tongue of those who have

                                  ridden it out, these magical

 

                                  seconds when the bull bucks on –

                                  and we are astride, or

                                  off  – our palms chapped with

                                  the rope we coil and strengthen.

 

Please note: The poem is mine, but the artwork used to accompany this post is a clipart illustration.