Write a Poem about Gathering or Letting Go

Mountain range between Ridgway and Telluride, Colorado in Fall

No hay bales in this picture, but it shows the mountains.

This is Two-fer Tuesday on Robert Lee Brewer’s blog. You can write a poem about gathering, a poem about letting go, or a poem about both.

Click on the link to read the contributions of the usual suspects and to write your own.

2012 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 20 | Gathering Poem | Letting Go | WritersDigest.com.

Gathering

We stand

by the strand

of highway

between

Ridgway

and Telluride

on a gleaming

day between

heat and chill

looking out

on pastures

green still

and peaks

touched with

snow. A hired

rancher’s tractor

pulls a contraption

that gathers

cut grasses into

rangy rolls.

All the sweet

summer is soon

stored away

to feed winter

stock as surely

as stock earned

in other ways

has been

gathered to hire

a rancher.

via Write a Poem about Gathering or Letting Go.

Missing Tracks

Yesterday, we drove up into the high country near Ridgway, Colorado. My husband is a railfan, which means we take pictures of trains.

Years ago, when we lived in the city, we spent our summers in Ouray. We drove down to watch the weekly train come into Ridgway to pick up its load of concentrated lead and zinc ore trucked down from mines higher in the San Juans.

The track is long gone and part of its right-of-way is under the waters of the Ridgway Reservoir, but, with the aid of our photographs, we were able to figure out where the yards had been.

Here are your ideas for today:

  • write about a train
  • write about a place you visited that is completely different now
  • write about a reservoir of some kind
  • write about a friend’s hobby or obsession

Here’s my top-of-the-head effort for the day:

Missing Tracks

Nobody here misses them.

The conductor and his historic

caboose made of real

California redwood

have moved on just

as surely as the uncertain

rail over which

the heavy diesel

locos rocked,

pulling their leaden

loads of rock,

clicking over

jointed rail

joining tunnels

first dug out

with shovels

on Red Mountain

pass in the days

when these towns

rocked with

raucous dreams

of easy riches

and fast pleasures.

Now, we stand

in the parking lot

of the library

on history

that nobody here

remembers,

listening for the

bark of a horn

echoing across

a valley

which now

is gold.

copyright Linda J. Armstrong, October 27, 2012: all rights reserved