I
Fencelines
I drove three hundred and fifty miles across the land I love.
Fencelines flashing by, and I’m reminded of
stories of the early settlers and their jealous awe
at the sound of pounding hooves, millions strong
and how quickly those herds disappeared.
And each field once bound only by the horizon
is sliced up by the portion that a man can handle.
It’s the fenceline that inspires a man;
the mark of what’s his, the piece of land to hand down the family tree.
But it’s just a fenceline, there is no guarantee
that his time here will be remembered
any more than the Permian sea;
which was–then left.
I just don’t believe the promises of fencelines can be kept
because nothing will outlast this Kansas wind.
Our fencelines, the trees, the bison, even the sea
have a boundary in time, the place we all call “The End”
II
The descent feels good.
But when I look up,
the path is longer than before.
III
I’m the half owner of a secret,
a memory shared with a man without any.
What we were building up on the hill above the thicket
may never be known by the next owner of the lot.
Grandpa did the building til his knee got too bad.
But he also got sick, lost his mind
and with it, the memories he had.
So we haven’t been back to that tree with two trunks.
But I know it’s still there, so today I hiked up
through the ivy and brush.
Across the creek bed, I climbed the bank along the deer run,
then further up where the cedars stand.
I traced the old trail following a void of low branches–cut by hand.
It took a while, but I found it.
Since we’ve been gone, maybe fifteen years,
the southern trunk has cracked, and started to fall.
Both are still living, but just the one is still standing tall.
I climbed up it.
The view is gone.
The forest has grown up.
IV
What was hoped for will never be.
If only the sorrow stopped with me,
it might be well.
But for some, hope is all that is left
and sorrow is the only glimpse of hell
they will ever see.
V
How much farther must I go to show my love?
If there were a line, I’ve crossed it.
If it were graded, I’d have overshot the curve.
If it were tried, any jury would have my side.
But there is no measure, no rule, or prize
for the height of love shown when Jesus died.
So to love too, I’ll forfeit my right to claim my share
and wait for the day when I’ll love without care.
VI
The World Reveals Itself To Those Who Walk It
The first on the trail sees the deer
But it isn’t only for this the path was blazed
For this city, pockets are carved
for the forest to be,
for the citizenry to breathe
and walk a while among the wild things.
Some places get too good.
Every home is up to code and the yard is manicured
and the families race through their lives as fast as they can.
That’s what the highway is for;
to keep us buying as fast as we consume
and devoting our lives to daily commutes.
To assume the driver’s seat, you’ll no longer see
the world beneath your feet,
only where you’re going as fast as the car ahead.
The deer here are all dead.
The trail is for what the world is for–miracles.
They exist everywhere they aren’t expected.
To dull the doubts, this assurance blesseth.
VII
A Good Review
Racing down the highway of life
running low on fuel,
hoping for a stop to rest – really rest.
But so many of these exits feel forced upon me;
developed only to sell something to those who have to buy,
to prey on their haste as they too race by.
But I’ll hold out.
There’s gotta be a special spot
to rest a bit and stretch our legs out.
Empty tank coming and I’m counting down.
Baby wakes up, crying to get out.
And through the trees I see
half a sign “Cooper’s Coffee and Eatery”
filling station next door – Score!
Immigrant entrepreneurs just opened in May.
Best breakfast sandwiches a bagel can make.
Lattes with perfect leaves and a wonderful taste.
Quality is always worth the wait.