From the Bondurant Weather Cam
HELL
- by Dele Ball
They say hell is a firey place,
With heat and flames like furnace blast,
And temperatures too hot to face,
Where demons live and you can't last.
I say they're wrong. I know a place,
That's cold and lone, piled high with white.
Where frigid breezes skirt the drifts
And, like the mind, sometimes takes flight.
For months on end, the piled up snow
No matter how you rave and rant.
Lies four feet deep on top of fence
Oh, hell, they name is Bondurant.
Dele was a friend of mine and a wonderful poet. She was also an artist, and made many of her own colors from colored Wyoming earth. She created unique scenes of her country with those paints. She passed away a few years ago. I love this poem, as well as many others she wrote, and since we've been doing so much "Bondurant" lately, and experiencing the deep snows there, I've been thinking of this poem and decided to put it in the blog. I hope her family won't mind that I've used it. I'd like to share another of her poems or two, maybe later. Dele and her family ranched over on Cottonwood at the foot of the Wyoming Range, relatively close neighbors to Joe's brother Jim.
