He stood some place inside me

as ancient history,

a relic of fields paved over,

a phantom on a horse,

his existence a hundred years too late.

Cowboy boots tanned

by his own power,

his immeasurable self,

the dry mountain sun.

Every crease in the palms of his hands,

a reminder

of fences, chicken coops, barns

built with homemade lullabies and the wisdom of good men.

All remnants of times when working the land meant working the self.

Weaving dirt, sage, rolling mountains

into a life left to run wild

amid columbines and open corrals.

He gently spurred my insides

and in a whisper carried by some southbound wind,

Don’t panic.