A quartet of weathered buildings

on a frozen misty plain

The first keeled-o’er from the snow, white sun, and rain.

Second is a silo, powd’ry steel intact and near

Much a thing still left inside it- Tis not right to pry, you fear.

Next, a pleasing cabin ancient pioneers did craft

standing proud through waves of Now; and an anchor to the past.

Last a lonesome stable, made crimson by milk paint

Apprehension stirs inside you as you peer far past the gate

 But here is nothing new to see

but a barren floor in its entirety.

A deep need for Time now satisfied,

After walking away, you find

that the hard-earned favor of these presences has been gained

by keeping foolish pridefulness closely rein’d.



The sky is blooming with sun-bleached sapphire
Burnt tallgrass sways with the sigh of the wind
Whistling and stillness
The trees stand watch
For something that never comes
Sun rays fall heavily upon the hills
As the orb continues its slow descent
Below the grass
Heaven turns orange
The breeze chills
Making me walk away slowly
to the whiskey on the porch
and the rest at the end of the day



There he comes!
In regalia fine
On the top of a prancing Hackney
Almost as gaudy as he
The people bow their heads
To their leader in purple and yellow
His silver sword and braided tassels
And perfectly polished saddle
He passes by majestically
Leaving the rest behind
Do they decide their lives
Or does their leader?
Try as you might
You’ll never find out
Until it is too late