Bonham, Texas by Linda Imbler



Bonham, Texas

Springs’s leaves fall limp and wet
and hug the gentle bough
from showers that quench the land.
Flowers of pansy and hyacinth
blossom beside the long porch,
and upon the meadow’s splendor,
we stand awed against waves of bluebonnets.

Within the shimmer of summer,
the farm is an active place.
During a long walk uphill, 
we wend paths active with animal life and birds
and quickly flowing streams,
or stroll across green pastures
in need of mowing
as grasses tickle our ankles.
We avoid ‘The Bottoms,’
where the tusked wild boar live,
because no entreaty will appease them.
If by chance they should pass by,
we wear our armor on our hips.

In the drier days,
while leaves sleep and dream
of their reincarnation as new buds,
Autumn deeply inhales summer’s breath
and exhales that breath as its own. 

In winter, the night is so dark
that even prayers are invisible.
There is no light, except from the fire pits
and a small front porch bulb.
In the dusk of day,
the walks seem twice as long,
for now the streams are thick with ice
and the paths lack tracks.
Everything, but us,
sleeps with the leaves,
And although the way seems lengthened, 
it gives us time to dream our own dreams.


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