Parent Pioneers

Every month, Karen urges her fellow bloggers to participate in a writing challenge, based on a theme. The rules are simple. 
1. Poetry. 2. Write it.
The results are both beautiful and diverse.
This month's theme is RENEW.
For me, the word always brings back thoughts of the ranch. In the spring.
So, this month, I'm going to use a poem written, not by me, but by my mother.
Discovered by me in one of her journals only a couple of years ago, over a decade after her death.
I know this is stretching Karen's rules, but I do hope she'll forgive me . . .

Pioneer Stock

Fresh, clear air from East to West

And room to come and go,

To watch the prairie grasses wave,

And feel the cool winds blow.

To hear the Whisper through the trees,

And watch the morning light,

The little prairie creatures stir,

The ducks and geese take flight.

To see the lazy shadows play

Across the hills at dawn,

And watch the golden sun rays touch

A mother and her fawn.

To look out o’er the rolling hills,

As far as the eye can see.

And not a thing to mar the view,

Not road, nor fence, nor tree.

And far across the plains we see

At the edge of the prairie.

A ridge of snow-capped mountains rise

In Splendid majesty.

When winter sheds his frosty coat,

And north winds cease to blow,

We see the fragile prairie flowers

Peek through the melting snow.

When all the lights of the Milky Way

Play eternal melodies,

A million winking stars above

Join the Heavenly Symphony.

And, stealing ‘cross the rolling land,

A whispering, gentle breeze,

A haunting, trembling Rhapsody,

Stirs leaves in all the trees.

When the moon begins to float,

Across the balmy night,

Caressing all the troubled world,

With it’s glorious, heavenly light.

We see the prairie antelope

Crest the hill at night,

A silhouette against the sky,

As he pauses in his flight.

As the frogs croak out a lullaby,

And all the Prairie sleeps,

A purple Shadow treads the Trail

Where the Wiley Coyote creeps.

The tattoo of the horses’ feet,

As the stage coach rolls along,

The sweat and grime and clouds of dust,

The crack of the whip at dawn.

And bounding o’er a craggy ridge,

The mocking laugh of Raiders,

We hear the loaded wagons roll,

With cursing Whiskey traders.

When a fevered child cries out,

There is no way to go,

To drive the faithful horses through

The shocking drifts of snow.

Sit anxiously throughout the night,

Clutched ln fear and dread.

No way to call a Doctor, or

Take the infant in the sled.

To rise with the sun and milk the cow,

And tend the hungry teams,

To pause a bit and watch the flocks

Fly on to other streams.

To eat a slice of thick, dark bread,

Rich butter and some jam,

Bowls of steaming porridge, and,

A slice of home-cured ham.

Hitch the team up to the plow,

And with the help of God,

Glean a frugal living from

The brown unwilling Sod.

Through Silver Willow, Sage, and, Brush,

We hear the prairie call,

The pioneers of this land are there,

Their silent footsteps fall.

We share so much with those who’ve passed

Their hope, their faith, their tears,

The courage to rise again and again,

Our parent pioneers.

See what the others have done with the theme . . .

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Renew

Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Renew

Sarah of Not That Sarah Michelle: Rebirth