Under Some Western Sky Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

sooner or later we'll be reborn under some western sky.
see, there's the mud tracks of the cart moving on
by the scraggly wildflowers; whoever knew their names

held the reigns
on the wagon that had seen the last of the sun,

blistering dreams; that quarter melon moon heightening
old schemes, pots and pans, hourglass sandstorms,
dresses that are worn clear through

while we make do
and carry the one on odd pieces of slate.
is it too late the soul sighs or is it the winds

through prairie grasses I pretend,
suspending all belief.

mary angela douglas july 21 2016