Cowboy Poetry, Cowboy
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The End of the Drought
Copyright©2001, Michael S.
Robinson
Us cowboys talk of starvin'
stock
through lips all parched and dry.
For rain we lust, as clouds of dust
conceal an orange sky.
We reminisce, in wishful bliss,
beneath the moonlit haze,
and wonder how the drought persists
through months of summer days.
The worst we fear, yet, slickers near,
we say our prayers over,
and dream of weather blackening leather,
greenin' up the clover.
It's been three months, and more than once,
the sky's turned dark and cold,
and lightning's struck, but drops got stuck,
as storm clouds churned and rolled.
...Just one more time the sky was prime
to drench the thirsty dirt.
For what it's worth, ol' Mother Earth's
a teasin' little flirt.
So life goes on from dawn to dawn,
with glimpses of her smile--
a dreary range, without a change,
for gruelin', endless mile.
Yet, ridin' here, 'twixt cow and steer,
I feel one little drop.
That gal starts dishin' what I'm wishin'
and she doesn't stop.
The land's all soaked and clover-cloaked;
I'm wet, right to the core.
It's like the bliss of my first kiss,
to feel the rain once more.
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