Despite the Doldrums

In a desolate corner of Nevada, here,
ever still,
she has an unquenchable presence.

I return here daily and dodge tumbleweed
to watch her rise from her long deep sleep,
and I breathe in all the coolness of Sierra.

Not just words on an old poet’s page,
or ripples on a faraway desert stage,
not just unseen history gone in the wind,
not just some rodeo as a shooting star,
but presence, here, the very breath within,
as she swirls all the cosmos.

Others may reminisce, but I call her Hope.

For every cowboy dreams of the new day.




Published in Cowboys & Cocktails, Poetry from the True Grit Saloon
by Brick Street Poetry, 2019

 
Written by Joe Bisicchia on 22/05/19
© 2019 Joe Bisicchia

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Day, Hope, words, Dreams, Wind, sleep, history

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