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

sound: New Moon At Forbidden Mesa / The Desert Collection, Vol. One / Steve Roach