Poetry ~ Ruby Hoy

Random Poems



The stones gathered
above the river in Austin
and Ida Mae’s field
seem piled to some purpose
of their own.

Their is no Stonehenge
here to the south
of Sherman City,
no race of druids marking
the days by starlight
on quartz and granite.

My neighbor claims
no knowledge of the gods
as he pours another shot
into our midmorning coffee,
yet he is a reverent man.

This farmer worships daily,
the strain of his back
and calloused hands
are the echo of his prayer,
a caretaker who knows
the myth of owning.