The Range In Winter

out on the blue furled range
we sang about in schools
has it started to snow yet?

I always loved to wonder;
the cows with their rolling eyes
in the mists

the buffalos stamping out the ghost fires.
that would be some Christmas
with the snows piled up to God

and the little sod houses.
we would live underground there
cloudy with dreams and stews

among the wild onions; the strings
of peppers from the rafters strung
like a thousand jewels won.

and the plains going on without us outside
to guide them.
the frozen grasses

breaking off  in the winds.
and brittle to the touch.
I longed for this so much:

and the skies coming down to meet us
where the angels froze mid-air;
singing and singing

the sleet stinging our cheeks.
and the long, long weeks
of the earth so trackless now shrouded and

covered in drifted linen, with the exquisite stars.

mary angela douglas 15 january 2016