“It’s been forty-five days since the snows have begun
I stare at the fire and long for the sun
As the bitter winds blow through the mouth of the pass
I sit here and dream of the buffalo grass.The ponies are shaggy; their coats have grown long
With their heads down they huddle together as one
At the window my breath forms a mist on the glass
As I patiently wait for the buffalo grass.The seasons still turn
And the prairies still yearn
For those who were here long ago
The Sioux have all gone
And the bison moved on
And soon I will follow them home.
. . .
The geese will return as a symbol of change
The elk will be foraging out on the range
Once again nature’s palette will color the pass
And I will find peace in the buffalo grass.”
–Andrea C. Crimmins