It wasn’t with your guns the west was won,
it was the concept that our soil was owned,
it could be fenced, divided, never shared.
But buffalo needs water, needs to graze.
That field of yours gave corn
you traded into bucks (green for green)
and me… you dulled with whiskey.
But what was won for you?
When fences rust, and soil has turned to dust
I see you leave, a dust-cloud in the setting sun.
I’m left to mend your fences, not the earth.
You turned our greens to desert when you left
to once again move further west.
The picture this week just begged for poetry.. my excuses to all coming here looking for fiction. I don’t think it needs any further explaining. This is also part of my effort to write 30 poems for April.
Friday Fictioneers is run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and every week we…
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