Simple

​

When life was simple,

I’d saddle Whitey—

a nag named for his snowy coat—

and we’d ride down to the center

of the pasture to care for the cows.

 

When life was simple,

the cattle flourished:

ate the hay and prepared to procreate

so the cycle could continue.

 

When life was simple,

We’d chop the trees to

furnish firewood and heat.

 

When life was simple,

I longed to never leave.

 

It’s been ten summers since

life was last simple.

Whitey has passed and the cows

have become the grass.

The cycle continued.

Maybe life is still simple.