Mother’s Forget-Me-Knots

      It is but a seasonal chorus; these gentle moans of evening gusts which cause the ever so quiet creaking of the metals hinges of the corral gate. The ancient sounds of moaning; creaking; whispering; echoing in the ears of the old cowboy mourning for his lost way of life.


      He silently watches from beneath the brim of his floppy old hat as the well bucket swings, back and forth in the evening light, now just an empty pail of remembered thirsts. Echoing these nightly sounds; young coyotes yelp harmoniously from the hills above. Each of these sounds only adding to the loneliness of this night of memories..


     The dilapidated old windmill now stands alone; its slat-board sails trying valiantly to catch the whispering wind; life for cowboy, corral and windmill noisily passing time until the day they just up and die...


     The long un-used hitchin' post defiantly stands in reminder of a time life seems to have forgotten. The corral, with its splintered posts now just a left over from years gone by, left here in the cowboy’s memory to weather rot...


     Remembered things drifting forever on the unforgiving tick of the clock; memories now indelible printed on the tender petals, of mother’s forget-me-knots.

©2005-2010 David L. Griffith

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© 2005-2010 David L. Griffith ~ The PalletMaster ‘

"There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval."