08/21/2026
This is a poem I was working on a few weeks before our recent tragedy. The poem is sort of about how life is just so short and full of sentimental moments that mean nothing to other people, but at the end of it you’ll still have collected so many moments you did get to share with others. Others you may lose along the way and in a way they might take those happy memories and wash them in so much despair. It’s about how gentle we need to be with everyone around us.
I really want to be staying in better contact with everyone than I am…. And my mind is always working on ideas for the farm, for poems (whether sad, silly, or nostalgic/romantic), photos and ideas re: advertising, repairs that need made, budget and thrift, things to fix, things to order, on and on…. Anyway, it is what it is.
Customer Service
Customer service - I tip my hat,
Though heaven knows it’s not how to chew some fat.
Manners learned in battles lost, gaping wounds, pouring rain,
A country girl surely is no governess’s pain.
A farmer’s got no scripted speech,
Smooth bonjours are a bit out of reach;
Deepest thoughts in balers’ blare,
Watercolors mapping out fence-lines’ fresh repair.
Let's speak fluent ‘is it hay weather?’, windrow lore?
I’ll agree to be oblivious if you beg encore.
The mare, for sure, expects exchange of goods outright;
Just admit you too, want it sugared, warm, and light!
But like a rural sunrise, as you see, a wild feral, rarely seen—
Blue jean duchess, dusty haybale queen.
Unearthed Campagne Noblesse, now roughshod,
Frayed cuffs, worn muslin façade.
Strength earned upon some former waving field,
Nodding, smiling, squinting… to gleaming sinew, rusty steel.
To rain, tall wet grass, brush beyond the gate,
Basking in all the lovely little things, that darken without notice, ugly turns of fate.
When a whole life seems to run behind,
Pray to credit, not neglect, but busyness of mind.
While life wants polished hutches and their accouterments as well,
I’d sooner oil my bridle at the gates of hell.
And yet—I hope you’ll stay here a little bit;
For to meet you stirs me to my saddest, deepest pit.
Your visit feels akin to… re-finding, in a drawer,
Old coins beneath a sash one once proudly wore—
A state fair buckle, still silver as a dream,
A fair queen’s crown, now isn’t that something to esteem?
I see you in the lamplight, half amused:
What’s the point? How are such credentials ever even used?
Laughing too, is not all of living much the selfsame art?
Good cowgirls sure do come away a little frayed, for their part.
Wind-burnt, sun-kissed, heart broken, sweat-stained,
Is this not the utmost welcome, unbridled? Unrestrained?
Study the structure of the dandelion puff, send ‘em off with a gust,
Braid a daisy chain for a friend you could come to trust;
Slowly, gently comb out the tail of your favorite ride,
Doesn’t one bring flowers for a love who’s been steady at the side?
Polish can be such an oily, smudgy thing,
Let’s ride in search of something more worth-worshiping.
If not in passion, admiration, devotion, where else is pride?
Don’t you see my love, really wanting-needing you, comes from deep inside?
…
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Photos from various years - and for this one, the older and more sentimental the better….
I’m sorry I didn’t take some time to gather a few more for you.
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