I’d Like To

William James Rosser

December 1, 2024

I’d like to scale the palisades

to the staked plains, unnoticed.

As elevation rises that way

sunsets fade pink behind cotton fields.

I wouldn’t mind the Far West, 

up toward the crest, 

then slope horseback south,

past cactus down the deep bend –

roam there the ghost mines for mercury.

Never have I braved the thick brush,

descended the long valley and seen

the grapefruit trees blossom.

I’d like to walk the groves early morning.

Then cross the march into some country.

Nor have I negotiated the estuary lake,

though I stayed close by reptiles once. 

Some places they saunter from the bayous 

into side streets smiling and uncaring.

And though the shelled, still beach is gray,

still, I’d like to stroll the bay shores 

barefoot with redfish in the shallows 

and in season. 

They kiss toes with the lapping gulf water –  

I can’t do those things, most things now, can I? 

Not hobbled up past the Blackland Prairies, 

dry riverbeds, my reservations, autumn abed. 

Come, long winter.

William James Rosser is a retired sommelier and poet from East Texas stock and grew up on the Northern Blackland Prairies. He studied journalism and literature at Lamar University and tended toward New Criticism and lyric verse. Among others, Rosser admires Emerson, Warren, MacLeish, and Lanier. He writes from Tulsa.