Snowstorm/Tamara Hillman

Ranchin' ain't easy,
an' it don't get no better
when chores are plum awful
on account of the weather

Storm clouds start gatherin'
above the horizon,
I dig out long-handles,
I hate 'em like pi'son

A cold wind starts blowin',
chills a man to the bone,
the future is troublin'
out here on my own

The house starts to creak
but stands up to the storm,
another log on the fire
keeps it cozy and warm

I pull on my old coat
'n boots-pretty worn,
turn up my collar,
an' head for the barn

Snows blowin' sideways
an' stingin' my face,
I think I'm half crazy
to stay on this place

Wind keeps a howlin'
snows pile up an' drift,
if I don't find them cattle'
they may fall off some cliff

With my trusty old horse,
we herd some to corral,
we've been long together
so he's more like a pal

This task is repeated,
in hastened routine,
while the storm grows
more fierce, angry, an' mean

I take to my bed
in wee hours of morn,
tired an' half froze,
wish I'd never been born

The fire's dyin' down,
burrow deep in my quilt,
complain to my maker,
an' feel plum fulla guilt

'Cause I know He saved me
from that terrible storm
as my limbs start to thaw,
an' body gets warm

Last thing on my mind
as I drift off to sleep,
"Lord, I'm sure grateful
this cowboy you keep."

        © 2004, Tamara Hillman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.