For all the rain

I am the tender

of tall grasses.

I looked up

in this red morning

to see, again, the mountains

shouldering their clouds.

I feel the Gulf of Mexico

in the air and

cool on my skin,

laced with a shiver

of old world spirit,

like a walk in the

French Quarter past

crypts built like little castles

for the bones of haunters.

All of this is

early morning thinking of course,

and later, I will drive my tractor

criss and cross in Colorado

until the rains laugh me into

more mowing tomorrow.

I am lost in the particular these days,

I myself particulate,

a bit of dust or ash

driven into the earth

by the rains for the

tending of tall grasses.

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