How They Rise Again Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Favors for my soul:
These are these, mountain and trees, and other things
Through the purgatory of our eaves;
And it hurts me Alma every time that you are still going home to
Him,
When I am a good man, even when you called me a great man,
And the stars, and the sun,
And the friends that I couldn’t even resurrect hoeing with the
Dragon’s fangs underneath the falling tears
Where I lost my sisters, but who came back again, bugling and calling
Home again their better men across the prairies
And the savage stains of Indians:
The tattoos and the stolen horses, and the other things that are so
Painful and homeless,
The ride the range looking for their strange and moaning:
The sun in the sky beating the clouds, and the fairest of airplanes
Swearing as they are touching down;
And then in the new morning the same old thing: other things that
I cannot truly be describing, cursing and beating themselves
As they rise: Oh, how they rise again.