Mine. Not for long.

MINE ^[1]  

I claimed it, I owed it; it was mine!

That mountain of ponderosa pine,

That spread of sage and crested-wheat grass,

That cluster of boards and nails known as a house,

That orchid of fruit I’d call “world class.”

2

I paid the taxes, held the title

To rolling pastures green to the line,Mine

To cattle and horses and sheep so fine,

To full-headed, golden, bearded wheat

It belongs to me and you can’t take it away

Uh – What did you say?

3

You say that another soon will own

These bottom lands my hand has sown?

You say I won’t sell it or give it away;

Instead I’ll simply leave it here when I sigh

That final sigh and quickly die.

Another! Imagine that!

4

Another will sit where I’ve sat and look o’er these fields

And claim them his, and gripe or brag, about their yields

And then like me he’ll also slip

Beyond the sound of human lip,

And, leave as I will, his all behind;

His ALL, unless he will the Savior find.             

– eab, Sep. ’95

^[1] Imagined this as the musings of a rancher in South Dakota (or Nebraska) where I had four happy years pastoring.