Why I Write: the unvarnished truth

Before it’s all over with, most likely I’ll  publish all my poetry here –including those that have been published elsewhere–one day perhaps I’ll include short fiction. 

On a shelf in the back of my head lies a piece I read  long ago. It made me face the perishable nature of all things.  I’m comfortable in the universe now, and live in a state of acknowledgement that I’m just passing through. Below is my version.

 * * * * * 

The story takes place in the 1800’s–on a hilly prairie–out west.
A thin, tall woman with long yellow hair
lived in a cabin on the side of a hill; her man had gone to the fort to sell horses. He would stop at the general store before coming home.
He’d bring back supplies for the winter.

That was six years earlier, as near as she could figure.

She brought her own supplies now, each day looking for him
–she listened on the wind in the evening—
set two places at table—
and cooked for two.

Local cowboys and people in town who saw her every few months said she was crazy.
She didn’t talk much;
checked for mail in the store
—nothing came except news that her mama had died—
She bought supplies, along with ink and writing paper
–and kept watch.

After a while, riders working on ranches south of the hills
–driving cattle, riding the fence lines—
discovered notes tied to tumbleweeds.
They were not addressed nor signed. They described the west, the smells and flavors and sounds—
Whispered of sewing by firelight, of carving buttons out of bone. Some were simple descriptions.
All sounded of the wish to be heard by someone downwind of the tall, thin woman with long yellow hair  who tied notes to tumbleweeds.

 

Writings published on this website are original compositions of © Kate McIntire, except where noted. It is Copyrighted and full attribution must be given when used elsewhere & must include a link to the original.  For noncommercial use only.