My Country

It’s National Poetry Month, folks! Enjoy!


My Country

In the half light from this lumbering train,

geese are returning – this is their country.

Sky clears as marshes of winter runoff come

to expected life along these silent rails.

Green turns violently to white, those rough

spires angling up toward heaven, snow clouds

blowing along their edges, casting veils across

white beds of ice, blue in sun, but gray now

as the cup of weather spills its late winter fate.

This is my train, cliff water tumbling – the Rockies.

This is my country. The trees: Black Spruce, Birch,

Fir and Tamarack. The creatures: Bufflehead Duck,

Moose and Mountain Goat. Let me run from this train,

through this valley and disappear into the ether,

into the blue light of meadows, the crowded trees.

Take this weight, lift it from my shoulders. People

my days with Hoary Marmot, Clark’s Nutcracker and

The Great Wapiti. Let this train remind me of fishing

the Missouri headwaters, the steeple-shadowed

Bow River, the Big Hole in August’s white blaze,

my father during a full cast, blind to details, but hitting

his mark just the same. The simple grace with which

he accepts the purest luck and love of what he calls,

“my country,” its vital, stubborn, shake of life.


One thought on “My Country

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