My home was a ranchland
three feet down
Vaqueros rode
Horse whisperers these
through ranch and town
their tracks forever
carved in ground
like artifacts
in native mounds

My home was a ranchland
close to the sea
that rose from the shore
to the knotted roots
of magnolia trees
just a pebble’s throw
from my ranchland home
where livestock roamed
and bottles were thrown
plates and clay and faraway sounds
like artifacts
in native mounds

My home was a ranchland
under the ground
where colorful people
Spent vibrant lives
or lives reduced
and sent to earth
so, steadily from day to day
they forged the town
with living clay
and then lay down
like artifacts
in native mounds.

Frances Jackson-Patrick is a member of Benicia First Tuesday Poetry Group.

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