Posted: October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized



Pastures scream in bruised,

Sienna-colored symphony

painful gusts of wind-blown,

thirsty calligraphy

write with their dry,

trembling seeds ~

imprinting across monsoons

of stained-starved memory

recalling what it was like to be

tumbled, rolling green

rising tall like bladed edifices

infrastructures of solemn glory

healthy, bountiful meadows

that even storms loved to play with,

swaying fragile blades,

as far as tired eyes could see,


their fertile stems once a landscape of

ever-bending, Emerald sea.


Even the horses walk slow now

eyeing me,

anticipating me to fill

empty metal troughs

while licking at parched air

in quiet, humbled misery.


One by one, I spray them

with the old duct-taped hose

sniffing with each pink, soft nose

cooling gentle slit-eyes

dowsing shaking, dappled flanks

shining under jealous skies

careful not to flood sensitive muzzles

yet they bite the welcomed stream

its liquid-fire, relief, of surprise!

and I know they thank me

or think I’m some fallen Angel

intruding upon exclusive

equine dreams.


I can’t cover

all fifty-three acres

of dead, stiff



nor find

the edge to death’s dull grass

that’s something we must

pray for:

precious rain,

like American Indians did,

from our not so-distant past

as these pastures thrive

not to appear as a wasteland

of burnt, lost embers.


Instead, to be again

rich, black, wealthy soil

Chartreuse-petaled jewels

ripe from fallen juices of

a cloud-laden sky;


    funny, how

    land remembers.


© Copyright 2011 ♥Susan Joyner-Stumpf♫


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