In a desolate corner of Nevada, here,
ever still,
she has an unquenchable presence.
I return here daily and dodge tumbleweed
to watch her rise from her long deep sleep,
and I breathe in all the coolness of Sierra.
Not just words on an old poet's page,
or ripples on a faraway desert stage,
not just unseen history gone in the wind,
not just some rodeo as a shooting star,
but presence, here, the very breath within,
as she swirls all the cosmos.
Others may reminisce, but I call her Hope.
For every cowboy dreams of the new day.
Published in Cowboys & Cocktails, Poetry from the True Grit Saloon
by Brick Street Poetry,2019
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A refined poetic imagination, Joe Bisicchia. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.