Saturday, May 6
A poem by Laurie Wagner Buyer
Cowboy, the world turns too fast anymore.
Firelight brightens your bowed head and clasped
hands that others may mistake for prayer
Only I know it's longing, loneliness that weights
High in the hills the horses' night bells ring peace.
But always, the return: the steep rock and sage
covered slopes down to the valley, the weary
ways of those who don't know the meaning of
a sure-footed mule, a sand-bottomed creek, or
a flat, grassy place to unroll a bed.
You know I know. Our descent is difficult.
No words pass between us but in one dancelike
you dismount and take from the sandy soil
a sego lily
trumpet-shaped and fragile, three white petals
tell me how pure the wanting is.