On the Petals of Forget-Me-Nots

A seasonal chorus; Riding the
bluish-gray evening gusts-
Metal hinges; Of the gates,
certain to rust-
Moaning; Creaking; Whispering;
in the ears of the mourning dove-
Landing on the thinning wires; In a
resting thrust

The well bucket swings, back
and forth- A pail of empty thirsts-
Echoing the nightly sounds;
Just as daylight bursts-
Rat-a-tats, against the iron-ore stones,
hand-cut, cold and rough-
Young coyotes yelp harmoniously; Each in
tune with the first

The windmill stands alone; On
the hill just outside- Hoping to fill
it's slat-board sails;
With breaths deep and wide-
A permanent roost; For the 'ol
gray goose-
That one day up and died; Yet not before
it thanked it's host- For the
many joyous rides

The hitchin' post leans heavily, against
a time, life forgot-
Splintered posts of years gone by, left
to weather rot- Autry's voice swoons
sweet and low; Through the webs in
the ole hay loft-
Drifting forever on the cheek of
memories-
and the tender petals, of forget-me-nots

© Lisa Hilbers
8/16/05