By Walt McDonald
A number of the attractiveness all of us want A West Texas starscape, wonderful by means of any degree, is emblematic of Walt McDonald’s plains. A lifelong party culminates during this, his best—and might be last—collection of latest poems. At seventy, the poet affirms, we are living by means of the secret of grace at the same time we watch general stars blink out at sunrise. For he believes "God is aware we're airborne dirt and dust / and counts our steps." In "Leaving the center Years," he writes, "At our age, / on a daily basis is grace and each breath / a blessing. lifestyles is grass, stunningly short / yet considerable in such a lot of ways." Walt writes approximately heroes—a mom who taught tumbling; friends and family long gone to warfare; the courageous at domestic who heal or console; others who rescue from conflict zones as many teenagers as they could. Heroes, too, are these whose constancy and pleasure locate faces in those poems. looking at crows at sunrise in Montana, a husband thinks of his spouse within their mountain cabin: If Ursula reveals extra grey she’ll move on buzzing, figuring out it’s ok, our kids 3 thousand miles away yet nice, after they referred to as final evening. She comes outdoors with espresso, remaining the door so softly even the crows don’t cease.
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Additional info for A Thousand Miles Of Stars
Then I sit up and go to the glass and look out, knowing I’ll see the moon and silhouettes of trees, not soldiers crouching through shadows, not fire or smoke, or children bleeding. [ 25 ] No Wonder My Wife Is Tough Da Vinci carved hands like that, but fists of this family? Curved vessels bulge under skin like thinnest leather, hands relaxed but powerful, enough muscle to feed the knuckles blood, and not an ounce of fat. Not a blotch, not one age spot on women of fifty. My wife carves lamb and hands the platter to a double cousin who’s come back.
Decades went by like the Brazos, river of the arms of God. After chemo, I stripped to my trunks on a sandbar. Lay down by my wife in the shallows, on sand sinking slowly beneath us. Reached often and touched her, eyes closed, enough to be close after sixty. Years ago, our children all walked away without beds, picking up where their parents began before children when we lay back in the shallows exhausted, outrageously young and blessed, eyes closed on Grandfather’s ranch on the Brazos, enough to touch hands in the river and listen, our ears underwater, long after war without cancer, no madness anywhere.
Home with only a limp and a horse, our dad fought drought and the bottle, saving his pay for a buggy and shack by the bunkhouse. On their wedding day he rubbed and fed his horse, bathed in the tank and lathered, shaved smooth as the day in 1918 when he mustered out. The day I left for Vietnam, I brushed Dad’s thinning hair in the hospital, flat on his back, unable to talk, his big fist gripping the bed rail like a claw. Even now, at sundown on the plains I think of Dad staring west from his gelding at an island thousands of miles away.
A Thousand Miles Of Stars by Walt McDonald