Up here on Anna's Farm in March,

way out, way north,

the Polar Circle skimming the vicinity,

snow falling on snow,

I'm by my human self this morning

in this heavy woollen sweater

that Anna knitted for me last winter,

of the highest quality Icelandic wool,

especially tightly knitted,

good for any cold spell, good to live in,

good to pass away in when that day comes,

and I pour myself into a pair of heavy duty,

any countryside-rough-farm purpose trousers,

feet into a couple of polar socks

that completely ignore the cold floors

of this old 1930's farm house,

and I'm all set!

The Wild-Wife

is on a four, five hour drive down the highway

to visit her aged, almost 90 years old, parents for a week,

and I get the scorching joy of working all by myself

with the horses Moses, Tornado & Russin,

intermittently screaming, shouting, jumping

and hopping about the living room floor

to Neil Young's concept album Greendale,

on the day Young has reappeared on Spotify,

charging me up like a red neck poet wild man,

rowdy and full of energy to be carelessly spent

in this burning joy of life,

turning the Neil Young volume up

yet another notch,

making the windows rattle

and the horses in the snowy meadow

join up on the others side of the fence,

stretching their necks, looking towards the house:

Go, Neil!!!

I get the feeling of the Mid West,

of freedom and bad health care,

(even though this place is more like Alaska)

remembering my Texan past

under Jimmy Carter, whom I sincerely liked,

and our Chevrolet Bel Air 1968,

and I think about another rowdy fellow,

a poet acquaintance in Nebraska; Lawrence Beck,

who in my mind fits

right into this storming Neil Young Greendale confidence

with his straight-forward poetry & his motorcycles!

Yeah! Neil Young is back on Spotify,

I'm moving diagonally across the floor

like a sidewinder or a twister,

hollering and yelling, dancing like I did

in younger years,

all the way to next horse feeding

and the publishing of this jubilant poem!