Sleeping In Nana’s
day concludes in glory
beyond the forest wall
suspended on a whippoorwill’s song
a muffled out board glides the narrows
past Hick’s farm
humming its sated fisher home
somewhere a screen door slams
crack, into the gather of night
sharp contrast to settled sounds of dusk
while cow bells soft metallic clang
echoes the way home
for lowing milky cattle, through the wood
fire in the next room hisses greedily
welcome to another meal of logs
a briar pipe taps staccato on the granite hearth
now click lit to quiet drawing sound
the old daybed creaks from seated weight
a coffee cup thunks down upon the arm
nightly news rustles into place
outside again, the bullfrogs
begin their baritone calls
a hungry raccoon chitters on the shore
then loons begin their plaintive calls
to distant cold faced stars
as wind brings a hushing of the night
each sound gathers to me
a cottage lullaby
rest safe and warm
drifting off to sleep
in Nana’s bed.
It was a small forgotten town
With general store and a grange,
Where a small boy asked the old man:
“When’s the last time you rode the range?”
The old cowpoke just paused and grinned,
And puffed on his old briar pipe—
He thought kids these days didn’t care,
With minds all full of games and tripe.
But here was a boy that did care,
And that hung on his every word—
That wanted to be a cowboy—
Of that one fact, he was assured.
“Son, it was back in the ‘30s,
A long time fore your folks was born—
It was the last gasp of the West,
Fore towns made the range forlorn.
“A man could ride on forever
On a wide range that did not end—
Just a man, his horse and his God,
And the free wind that was his friend.
“Yes, a man knew who he was then—
About life there was no debate—
There was right and wrong and true love—
And when called he was never late.”
But Jess,” the boy asked once again,
“When’s the last time you rode the range?”
The man smiled, but held back a tear,
“When I got old and the world got strange.”