Turquoise in its Foil

Blessed Willie & Waylon and all the Saints:
be thou gracious unto me and requite me not
               as I deserve for

dragging my cowgirl to the sullen Midwest,
but grant in thy twanging mercy that I may
                see her once more,

a turqouise in its foil, striding the Texas hills,
grasshoppers clattering among the mesquite,
                applauding her approach

on any ridge 'twixt Kerville and Lampasis.
May the Sun, unshaven and beery, strum
                copper highlights

in her hair. May the fence posts and lizards
croon their dustiest lullabies as she lies
                freckling on limestone

by the drawling Pedernales. And as for thee,
Lady Moon, thou gray-streaked hippy, who
                danced bare-breasted

at Woodstock and lay long nights of love
with Townes Van Zandt, lay aside awhile
                the silver wires,

the agates and amethysts, of thy studio
in Austin, boil us a pot of herbal tea,
                and tell our stars.

The Flint Hills Review, (2008) 13: 65.