the cowboy way

for lori and dan

the homes of forever are disappearing--
if they ever existed--we don't stay put
anymore.

paul and joyce had one entry
in my address book,
the constancy of 3302 W. Eighth
is still my fairy tale memory.

then there was buck creek,
an elixir of isolation and peace,
a slow life, simply without pretense,
I never drove away willingly.

we don't control the forces of change--
risk is the bitch of hope.

the toughest decision you made,
leaving easy for the promise of better,

like most great ideas, the whole thing
skidded off the road and rolled
to a dead stop.

as you often say, damn the luck.

not luck, now, but loving each other
more than you hate the struggle,
your search for home in an unfamiliar
landscape.

someday, I will write a poem
for crossbell, or for another
patch of land you haven't even
dreamt of,

I will write of my son's cowboy firsts--
the horseback ride, the newborn calf,
fishing, whether they're biting or not,
with the uncle he adores.

maybe by then, you'll
be at ease with this lesson of
starting over,

finding comfort in the never-changes--
a cold beer, the perfectly grilled fillet,
& all those who arrive at your new door,
needing (as I do) the proximity
of your heart, steadfast as the oklahoma sunset.