Category / Photographs
Minus 18
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.
Old Houses
Morning Run, Winter Solstice
A Girl and Her Horse
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.
One Beautiful Boy to Another
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.
Waiting for Spring
A Late Fall’s Afternoon
The Storms of Fall
Still Hard to Think of You
My breath still catches when I think of you;
my chest tightens
imposing and unchecked
because I am sprinting towards you but standing still
always always when you come to mind.
I am hoping soon and hoping never
that I will forget the smell of sagebrush hills and washboard roads
and bugling elk and turning leaves;
of snow falling over your leaden cliffs.
I am on my knees again.
I am doubled over at the kitchen counter for you
feeling those things I can’t explain;
those things that collapse anew when you come to mind.
You are the death of someone close
but far from dead.
They went through with it
and left you perched with unmoved wings
so they could fly south instead,
and you could soar without flying
as you always have,
but with no one there to see.
This is what it’s like
sending off and putting a price tag on,
the heaven that first carried you
high.