Gramps
Dear God, up there in cowboy heaven,
Here comes an ornery ol’ cowpoke.
He’ll be wearin' blue jeans and a pearl-buttoned down shirt,
With a pocketful of oats.
His hands are coarse and calloused,
With a slight arthritic quiver,
Braided deep with knotted veins
Like reins of well worn leather.
The toughness in his spirit
And in his whiskered face,
Just lend authenticity to
His cowboy, sinewed grace.
His seasoned cowboy eyes will be
Squintin' skyward for any sign of rain,
As he moseys down to the barn
With a galvanized bucket of grain.
At the end of day, his gait is kinda hitched
As he puts up the old milk cow,
And his cowboy hat seems indelibly sweat-stained
Over an aged brow.
When I close my eyes I remember
The lingering scent of saddle soap and cedar,
Rawhide, and assorted other odors
That hang around and stick to a horse breeder!
So, God, up there in cowboy heaven,
My gramps is ridin' his Fancy mare to you,
With his fingers entwined in a buckskin mane,
Please forgive him a cussword or two...
* de - april 2007
