Yesterday

he stuffed the dark unvisited corners of his attic with more insulation

and when it started to snow, he reveled in the fine mist of shadows

between the house and barn

where the light would catch a coyote later on.

 

Then he watched

the dry, rivulet circles her hastened tires made

before the tread-lines and ridges were filled with the storm;

he warmed his warm-enough hands near the blowing air

of the pellet stove

out of habit

 

and  kept hoping she was coming back.

 

When she turns,

he turns with her;

the horse she loves to ride.

 

He bends his hock and shows his hoof so willingly;

she picks the thick, dark prairie earth from his shoes

and circles the fur on his body with her palms and brush;

he tosses his head into the dying blue.

 

Soon, she will grip his withers

and tighten her thighs to his barrel

so that they can leave the people watching them—

 

the parents, the teachers, the stodgy calloused ladies

mucking the stall,

 

and sail unchecked towards either coast,

joining their imparity with each mile.

 

Every time we jog by this place,

we look at his picture and you ask so many questions.

You run your fingers over the raised lettering of his name

and you are stilled a lot longer than four year old boys stay stilled.

It caught me off guard the first time you knelt down on one knee

and said a prayer for the young man born in 1987;

the airborne sniper, deceased in 2012.

Someone brings fresh flowers often,

and brushes the dust off the image of his young face.

Someone kneels down to pray for him often too,

and today I captured the tribute from one beautiful boy to another.

A tree waiting for spring,

is an empty home

waiting for her boy to come back from war…