The ground is an absolute, the air lets
you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains
a compromise with violence you embrace
the way you mean an oath. Forever.
Without fault forfeit or regret—
a repossession of what
you will never let go, even
when you lose stirrup
grip and (so finally) your life.
Some say God’s not in Heaven, but
in the fling of self into chaos,
and He’s there not to stop
your fall, but to join in
the glory of your need to make every ride—
if often much harder to ground
than bone prefer—always as close
to the whistle as will will provide.
This poem first appeared in Dialogue, a Journal Mormon Thought. It is also part of a manuscript entitled Have by Lee Robison.