Spring

A gentle agony, Not really painful; It does not tear, But nibbles and complains, Like a child too tired to eat. I am not frightened or confused. I know what it is; Know I can suppress and survive it. But I should be impatient, Pushing winter on its way, Wanting the brown earth to crawl out And awaken from its white sleep. I should be looking for tender Green grass on south slopes, Worrying about late storms, Men, tractors, wind, Wet calves, scours, And getting heavy ewes in at dark. I have no worries, Only an annoying tension growing Stronger as spring approaches. It is nearly planting time, And I am in the city. Reprinted from `Cowboy Poetry: A Gathering' (Peregrine Smith Books, 1985), used by permission of the author.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...