So often I am asked about my ranch or farm or acreage. I do not own any of those, but the readers accept my words as reality. The following poem was born when we found this shovel near the sidewalk, while walking.

Today at the Ranch

What is it inside the imagination

that keeps surprising us

                         --Charles Wright

9:00 am

I have found a shovel.

The handle is broken,

there is a small crack

in its throat. But it is

still good in structure

and could be repaired

for use in your garden

or your yard. Perhaps

it could scoop fallen

leaves of magnificent

color, or snow bland

beyond all description.

Who wants this shovel

someone pitched from

a car or truck, into my

pasture, where the cows

eye it with fear and wild

animals smell the danger

of man. Who would like

to take this shovel, make

it whole and usable again?

Noon

Who will buy this goat

with a face like a sage

and a mellow voice

that beckons the early

evening? Will someone

take this fine animal

and let her see what lies

beyond the wire fence

that butts tightly against

the wood water trough?

She is only familiar

with the ground in a pen

found at the southeastern

corner of the northern

half of  a section of land.

She is most ignorant

of wars and the actions

of politicians eager

to make her life better.

She merely seeks to be

a goat free of bondage.

3:00 pm

A rusty scythe crusted

with more than forty

years of chaff and dust

is this day recovered

from beneath the rubble

of a collapsing tin shed.

Its corroded blade once

sliced through ripe grain

used to make the bread

which fed the family.

Then out of the ground

or down from the sky

its sharp inner curve

came cloaked in silence

to reap the gift of God.

It became the symbol

of all things non grata.

Accept this implement,

for past indiscretions

often are by the hands

of others, not ourselves.