were it wheat it would still bend under my heavy foot;
a slayer of stalk and head, clumped seeds to wind-spill.

Big Bend, a devasting moniker for life's extavanganza!
hot: defining itself by the cliffs carrying the Sun's load.

cold-at-night as space and near as forgiving in scrutiny;
i scrape the snug reality from the movie theatre downtown.

i chill now as i think of the stars and their blanket.
a crackling fire keeping varmits at bay, a Moonbath.

Spring is already ladened with hopes of greenery, wet;
rivulets gorge with flood-water, a heart-welcomed sight.

grasses trade their crispy, year-old togs for new green ones.
stonger to withstand the blanching, opening March winds.

it will be real as i toy with the Univeral Why?
fill my head with visions of futures and my grandson.

01/21/2009

Posted on 01/21/2009
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