In supine repose she reaches out

with verdant arms of brown and yellow-green,

to clasp her bony fingers in sensuous release

with the vertical horizon.

Skies, gray and whole, play ninety degree tug-o’-war

with grass, prickly hay and knobby-need shrubbery –

rough ‘n tumble farm stubble.

Short shacks and weathered barns

pimple her broad back

alive with promise of more.

Suggesting we but see,

she insists upon her miles-wide self.

Sometimes she sleeps and forfeits life,

longing for heaven’s lusty drool.

This long land has much to speak,

her hard, crusted lips pursed

to kiss only those who see her –

and hold their breath.


8 thoughts on “Wheatland

    1. Melody, as a southern Alberta boy, misplaced as it were, this poem was written through misty eyes and aching heart. I was driving to Rosebud (that poem still to come) where I worked in dinner theatre and kept having to pull over to write my thoughts…

    1. The journal has been my best friend since about 1985. The visceral experience of ink to page forces one to slow down and consider; to be mindful and attentive without seeking either production nor professionalism (at least right away). Not having my computer to work from was a blessing indeed.

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