Western Skies

Poetry editor Mike Puhallo
“I think every once in a while we should print something that don’t rhyme just to rattle the purists.”
– Mike Puhallo, poetry editor


High above bustling eastern streets
The hazy scent of autumn
Beckons to a childhood
Spent under western skies.

I stood in an August grain field
Soft prairie breeze on my face
Endless golden waves surrounded me
Alone but never lonely.

I rested from shimmering midday
In the high-ceiling’d coolness of a barn
Breathed the warmth of fresh milk
The freshness of new-mown hay.

I flew over rolling prairie
Free as the wayward wind
The pungent scent of sage
Thrown up by galloping hooves.

I walked through a brooding half light
Of a rocky mountain glen
Delight in the sudden bright emerald
Of a tiny hidden glade.

I stood by a cold mountain stream
Guarded by boulder and pine
Breathed the tang of sap
And softness of wildflower.

Leaning on the roughness of railing
In the twilight of fading day
The clear sweet tone of a meadowlark
Brought by the evening breeze.

High above bustling eastern streets
A child of the foothills
For western skies.