Cloud Party Over the Bear’s Paw
Where clouds are Yesterday People
wearing coattails of mist and azure,
like their formerly living selves
only congregate for birthdays,
weddings, funerals
In Mount Centennial heavens
every day is all three. Like
breakfast, lunch and dinner
atop a table of stars,
one ushers the next into place
each passing over like a wheel
People are born here, or come
from far off hillsides,
all to worship the beast they find
in their garden, the wind that travels
so long, so hard, it never departs,
never arrives. People love this land
and always will, so long as the land
can love itself. Lay down
your weapons, set aside your anger
rise up with your shovel –
stand tall behind your plough, humble
yourself, as dry grass bows its head --
there is nothing so rich
as Missouri River mud
on a poor farmer’s boots.
Where clouds are Yesterday People
wearing coattails of mist and azure,
like their formerly living selves
only congregate for birthdays,
weddings, funerals
In Mount Centennial heavens
every day is all three. Like
breakfast, lunch and dinner
atop a table of stars,
one ushers the next into place
each passing over like a wheel
People are born here, or come
from far off hillsides,
all to worship the beast they find
in their garden, the wind that travels
so long, so hard, it never departs,
never arrives. People love this land
and always will, so long as the land
can love itself. Lay down
your weapons, set aside your anger
rise up with your shovel –
stand tall behind your plough, humble
yourself, as dry grass bows its head --
there is nothing so rich
as Missouri River mud
on a poor farmer’s boots.
Steve Sibra grew up on a small farm in eastern Montana. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals including Matador Review, Jersey Devil Press and Jellyfish Review. Steve is a frequent featured reader in the Seattle area and has participated in Seattle Fiction Federation, Capitol Hill Poetry Brunch, Capitol Hill Art Walk, and elsewhere.