She Is Poet Of My Pasture by kaibab
She is bard of yard and willow,
growing greener grass
to graze omnipotence
in blaze of windy sigh,
her harvest healing heaven’s hole,
when word is note to sing forever.
She is harsher breath to bare intolerance,
when yellow leaves
are holding fast to last year’s branch,
afraid of flying breeze-filled sky,
seeking winter’s crystal kiss
to feathered love in still compassion.
This Native wolf, as she
to wander fabled forest,
in ancient mist,
drifting water’s wisp for choice,
healing voice in wilder whisper,
from beyond far shore
of first encounter;
her crisper metaphor,
as silver bond,
in rounder nipple of beast,
and resurrection,
Lupa eyes to sign true waves of rolling ripple,
shimmering pond, as crippled page
of rounder art.
I am only mountain’s cowboy,
trying to believe in fountains
spilling words of spring’s impatient measure,
through ancient valleys,
drinking pleasure.
Bare my name
to hear her howl,
in hooves embracing the taste of fall,
New England crying Colorado,
merging night,
inventing prowl
in birth of sun,
on fur-born shadow.
©kaibab
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