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Lew Hofmann

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The Old Homestead

It's crispy cold as my mind walks down the path.
My feet crunch the dry, cold snow
and make the only noise
that can be heard for miles.

The snow is deep and unmarked.
The barn and pens look stark and abandoned
in their white surroundings,
as if they have been empty for years.

I pass the corral where my horse
used to eat hay and chase the others away.
Now I can only see snow, and the wooden fence
which shows me where to walk.

I pause, as I have often done,
to listen to the sounds of hay being eaten.
And I hear it in my mind, where it will
always be when I want to remember.

I look around for signs of life,
knowing that there will be none,
but wishing for it to be
as it was so long ago.

 2014, Lew Hoffman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without permission.


About Lew Hofmann:

Well, I'm a transplanted Midwesterner, just like Omar. Discovered Colorado in a big way about 10 years ago and worked as a wrangler there for five summers. Then bought a place up near Kremmling that's at 9000' and borders the Arapaho National Forest. I'm still only a part-time Colorado boy, but I'm workin' on that. I'm also part Iroquois Indian, but I haven't figured out which part. (I think it's my attitude - see photo)

Lew Hofmann



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