what did he miss most?
the whip of wind on his face
the unbridled buck of life between his legs
the scent of the saddle
the lathered beast?

the fast pass of the satchel
to the next eager rider, the covenant
he carried in the saddle bags; the one he made
with the Almighty to keep him safe
from the red devils?  

a new century dawned, two score
years since the hot rides were quick
made obsolete by the iron horse, the poles
and lines that brought Morse's magic,
ticking time electric

what did he miss most?
perhaps the deep, unperturbed sleep
after the ride--slumber filled with liquid dreams,  
gifts bestowed by a condign contentment
from his brutish labor

at 18, she fell in love. the kind of love that moved mountains and swam seas. he made her write about relationships, mutual ones like the flowers and the bees

*at 21, she started writing tragedies.