The Last Norther

plainsky.jpg

He was waiting for it —
a blue norther rolling across his golden plains —
standing out there by the barbed wire,
eyeing posts that led to a blue-black sky,
when the windblades hit

forty-miles-an-hour or more.
A few minutes before, he’d felt the heat and fire
that burned his skin and eyes;
next a cold chill replaced those pains
with deeper aches that scored

his body to the bone.
A freeze forced his unexpected cry,
a cry that filled the wind-beat flat terrain;
a sound he thought he’d learned to control, higher
than his wife in childbirth had groaned.

His knees caved, his chest fell;
the snow-drifted sheets covered his drained
soul. Released from a mire
of nothingness – neither wet nor dry –
an end of weather worries; he rode out on the last swell.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 1/17/2013 * All Rights Reserved
My attempt at the Karousel form invented by poet David James.

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