Original poetry

The Cowboy

Ruddy from Montana winds he straddles his painted pony and braces against the cold.

He cups his hand to light a cigarette, inhales and clenches his chiseled jaw.

I now search the leathered folds of my father’s face for that young cowboy

on a drive to Pocatello, his agate eyes gazing, big sky and life before him.

Emily Florence

 

IMG_0036.JPEG

Final Words

When I told him we were going to let him go, his eyes flew open, not an objection, but his only way to express the fear.

His tattered body was immobile except for his eyes, eyes that come to me now in the ragged edges of sleep. 

My words wrapped him in a shawl, a gentle rain of things I have said so often and things I could not say before. 

And in the end as I stroked his forehead, words failed me. The profundity of death has no expression. It was silent but that was enough. 

Emily Florence

 

IMG_0024.JPEG

Kismet

The stone, tossed by a storm down the canyon’s red walls, comes to rest in a thicket of mint. Jack rabbits and wolves tense at the lonely echoes.

 The warm waxing moon fills the crevices of the canyon and washes the facets of the stone to a brilliance. 

I am the canyon. You are the stone.

Emily Florence  

 

IMG_0011.PNG

In My Garden

There grows foxglove, primrose, heather and yarrow, sage, dianthus, lavender and laurel. Each day I review, nurture and tend and wonder about that which is beneath the ground.

Some say that for strength, the roots have to search, that amending the soil diminishes reach. I will offer myself to you someday and become a helix with feet of clay. The lack of amendments will not subdue my rise from decay to a skin of blue. 

But now is the time to feel the August warmth and smell the dusk drifting in from the south, to watch the play of sun on the purples and greens and persuade the brief blossoms, linger their wings.

Emily Florence  

IMG_0006.JPEG