Late summer Laramie
is a thirsty place
but know that we are loved
held in the cradle
of dry grass hills
The sweeping vista
of sky will come again
play a new movie
Rain will fall from dark urns
on greedy plants
Swatches of tattered clouds
will be sun-dried
The dark grey horse-blanket
of night will cover us
A boy, not unlike my boy,
will walk the fields
crush the pungent sage
between his beautiful toes
His arms will reach out
brighter than search lights
in the darkening
Lucy Simpson, 9/2011
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