Friday, October 17, 2008

Prairie as a Fishbowl

It is world of parabolic
horizon, hastily razored fields
left-over stubble of unshaven farmers
where stooks stand at dawn. On the day

he is buried, land vibrates
knowing hands that have loved it
are returning.
Stands of poplars shake

their leafy lanterns unfold
sound crisp as linen, a memory
of dresses sweeping wooden floors.
Nothing can compare

to the way prairie breathes in
breathes out, embraces season
with sudden death, painfully labors
spring to green; and so it goes.

As he is lowered, no sound
but that of lowering, until the train -
its language leaving us before it begins.

- For REC - 1921 - 2008

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