Sometime during the night, an ambulance flies down

my street, jolting me awake. I turn the lamp on

and see that it woke Pup too. We both lay

back down, hearts racing, as the siren

fades into the distance.

Then I think of the farm.

I look around at my home where there’s no room

for muddy jeans and boots by the door

my new leather gloves and James’ handkerchief

sit on the dresser. I left my hat in Sadie’s kitchen –

I couldn’t wear it here anyway. There is no

room to practice roping on my brick patio.

At night, the crickets and frogs and stars

are drowned by traffic and laughter

and pale orange street lights.

My aunt sent me the papers

for the land across the river from her.

The old dairy is up for auction 

137 acres in all – the meadow, the stream,

The side of the mountain where I 

Learned to ride will go to a developer

Or a hunter 

Or someone else who will call it their home

who can write the check by May 1st.

I can’t picture anyone else living there

or loving it, dreaming of it as often as I do.

The thought of someone else signing their

name on the papers keeps me awake.

A stranger who doesn’t know the

the curves of the creek

or what the ridge-line looks like

in the very pale light

just before dawn.

I want to sign my name on that land,

to map out the fence line

and drive t-posts into the orange clay,

stringing barbed wire

across with gloved hands. I could

cut hay on it in the summer, raising

colts and calves there in the spring.

I could learn the land, and have it learn me

and at the end of the day,

look out over that beautiful ridge-line

and see something I am proud of.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s