Thursday, September 12, 2013
spiked black with cedar and pine,
the coulees…a tawny cougar hide
of dormant grasses
waving hair through crusting snow,
patchy and sporadic
like the distant whimpers of wars
that breathe and bleed between the words
genocide and revolution,
terrorism and torture,
human brutality too evil to examine
flitting in on frail FM
disc jockey interludes.
May the Gods of Chaos never find this place
of red shale and dusty sage,
or the people and creatures who
court on her pastures
May this raw land smell no more blood,
or smother screams
of sundered souls.
praise and embrace its protection,
treasure distance like a talisman,
precious and exquisite.
Push up the crust of the Earth
and fence out fear.