cowboy poetry

up from the meadows rich with corn
along the banks
which keeps
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
i can not tell you now
be not angry with me
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i am a woman
sleep, gray brother of death
i cannot always feel his greatness
i saw god. do you doubt it?
up to her chamber window
with the sunset