Wyoming

I did not know my heart would bend
to her the way that it did:
melting with the snow,
swelling like the scent of sage,
while she quietly tamed
my wild mind.

She pulled me into her “Trois Tetons”
glowing in their pink sunrise,
where, at the base, blossoms sprouted,
violet, yellow, and white,
flaunting beauty alongside rigidity.

Hearing the call of the elk
and the surge of the riverbed,
I was lured into her instruction
and branded as easily as aspen,
bruised and sore from her terrain.

Her tender rod extricated me
from weakness and worry
as if I were a wild mare
who, in her shelter, was given
peace.

Reticent and broken,
I left weeping
while her cowboy
reared his gelding
in farewell approbation
of the awe that has yielded me.

All Rights Reserved: Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson