When you first fell from the stars there was a place for you.
Out there in the burnished wheat fields.
Under the wing of a man who knew the workings of a farm.
Watching all the kids leave to pitch six dimes on a counter to see Burt Lancaster in Apache.
The last thing on your mind was losing ground or hiding.
You entered the orbit of this world as a fireball arriving.
You jumped through the hoops.
You followed all the rules.
Yet, much to your dismay, there seems to be a trick of time taking place.
The hours flirt with you and seem to drag on like small eternities;
while the days seem to scurry by
like horses breaking out of a corral
making a final, breathless gallop to faraway hills
that have never known saddle, stirrup, rein, or fenceline.
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com