his maiden fair asks
that rugged and dusty cowboy
to be her sun,
and in turn he asks that
she be his moon
and those could almost
be vows, spoken in
the cool air of a little
desert church surrounded by
dry grasses and scotch broom
maybe they would be,
could be, just a little further
down the line
and the cowboy finds he likes
the thought of that mighty fine,
like peeling an orange and handing
every other segment to her while
the sunrise paints the sky above
and it’s the love in the little things
that keeps that cowboy
coming back with oranges in
his pockets and a promise
on the tip of his tongue