I long to see you laid out right. A hand-crafted quilt, apart from this thin stretch of cloudless skies, movable mountains, and lassitude. Give me the hand of the mother that is old. Consecrate the place of no more disdain, no more scattering of stones. My heart counts chickens ahead of time; In due time, my toes will laugh in the farmer’s soil and thick air that’s good for something. Tractors off their leash! A beauty no less bewitching than the cow’s eyelash or horse’s tail swishing mosquitoes round about the earth; the same one people shuffle atop, on last legs, to gazebos in September-wrapped sweaters, or love which is almost the same thing. I feel you, Kansas, pulling me into the hillside plot my mother picked for my father to sleep. Forever, and then some. Such a view.
Rugged land I love, you are my sacred heart-throb, limestone in the hills.