I was once the girl

picking Gumbo Lilies.

Backyard for acres

like frontier. There,

in cloudless Montana,

there is so much

to touch. And here,

another thick-aired

night I brave

to reach a

plodding morning,

three cups of coffee

and a single

cranberry scone.

​

Black urn on

the mantle, I slip

my thumbs over

the engravings.

Claddagh stamped

into the ceramic.

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At first, I walked

this house on the Gulf

holding a burning

candle like a postulant.

I walk it now, repose

on this back porch,

hand open to

the sky as if

his face lingering

in the gauzy clouds

would come down,

rest in my palm.

I bake snickerdoodles

and send them to you –

​

O Thomas & Matthew & Laura,

in the mountains,

I have emptied

the urn to

the wind, returned

cowboy to land.

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