July 2, 2013

Each prairie farm holds the tale—
some child saved by the rope
anchoring house to barn,
or legend of the scofflaw
neighbor lost, not found ’til Spring,
too self-assured to fix a loosened end.
           Stretched through utter white, that line is life.

On this plateau of shaped terrain
of gentle slopes and trees
we carry on without a rope.
When, baffled by white of winter storm,
black of moon-free night,
groggy grey of sleep delayed,
I happen upon the fence
that brain-map etched by scores
of trips along this way
brings me home.

Still, clambering from the drift,
wet and cold, short one boot,
          I long for a sure connection