Lilac Scramble

There was a whisper bush that made a forest world At our back door in West Newton
Where I crouched, imagining the time of
Pilgrims, of Pocahontas, of pioneers,
Gingerly pulled the blooms apart to scramble and Simmer them in a thin aluminum skillet
No bigger than a fried egg, in diameter.
I played solitary picnic & cuisine games.

On similarly remote summer days,
In huge, hot Boulder foothills of the Colorado Rockies,
Another girl -- her bangs and eyebrows filling with dust -- Tamed then fed, brushed and rode an actual,
Too huge palamino that her father brought home
To fulfill family rodeo dreams.

She was unafraid of snakes.
She scoured the mountains alone
With her horse. She took her school books behind the barn And if it was sunny, even in snow drifts, she would read Or nap. Once she shared mystery stew
Served up by a hermit in his hidden, mountain-tunnel hideout.

She kept her folding knife very close,
In case of snakes and for skinning trapped rabbits--
A furry pair of rabbit feet
Dangled from her belt. In her pocket,
She packed a pistol.
It’s not like in Eastern cities:
Guns protect you, in the wilds of the West.

I filled tiny plates with fragrant mounds of
Lilac scramble served to neighbor kids for imaginary supper, Never imagined the silkiness of a lilac pulled from a wild bush
And tucked into the harshness of a horse blanket
Under a worn saddle, out in the trail dust,
Up in the Rocky Mountains.