The Big Western Woman


The landscape of her mind is vast, drawn out to a point far away

where a cloud of dust signals something coming.


The warm earth of her heart is mountainous, stippled with dancing

aspen glens, wild bouquets of indian paintbrush and purple penstimens.


The torrent of her will is river-wide and tears away chuncks of each

reluctant bank as it rages through the canyon and hurries on it's way.


Oh the western woman is the one the one that I prefer

to the city girl, prim and proper, fingernails and cigarettes, cute and

small with measured smiles, parked behind that office desk.


The big western woman whose breath comes out like mountain air

and when enraged cracks like thunder and comes down in an icy storm

The woman who loves, abandonless, like a prairie fire, and hides her

tears for no one but doesn't cry that much.


She's a wild ride with wind whipped hair and a grin from ear to ear

and she'll tumble down upon you like a cougar on a deer

and won't stand still for long while you whisper in her ear

because she's got nothing to hide

the least her pride

and the love of the life she's chosen

and as for me, those city girls, they might as well be frozen.