Debra Coppinger Hill Poet Cowboy Poetry

Breathing Magic

She sees him still 
  at the river, 
kneeling to drink 
  and get cool. 
She hears his voice 
  in the murmur 
as it empties into the stillness  
  of the pool. 
 
She remembers the smell 
 of cedar, 
of sweetgrass, 
  and sage smoke. 
And always she hears  
  the medicine 
in the truth-words 
  that he spoke. 
 
On lonely days 
  she holds him close; 
wonders silently 
  where he’s been. 
His love is hers 
  as long as she sits, 
forever breathing  
  his magic in.

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