Prairie birds, the whistle of gophers, the wind
blowing,
the smell of grass
and spicy earth,
friends like Mad Dog, the cattle down in the river,
water washing over their hooves,
the sky so
big, so full of
shifting clouds,
the cloud shadows creeping
over the fields,
Daddy’s smile,
and his laugh,
and his songs,
Louise,
food without dust,
Daddy seeing to Ma’s piano,
newly cleaned and tuned,
the days when my hands don’t hurt at all,
the thank-you note from Lucille in Moline, Kansas,
the sound of rain,
Daddy’s hole staying full of water
as the windmill turns,
the smell of green,
of damp earth,
of hope returning to our farm.
bloom on Ma and Franklin’s grave,
the morning with the whole day waiting,
full of promise,
the night
of quiet, of no expectations, of rest.
And the certainty of home, the one I live in,
and the one
that lives in me.
November 1935