Farmer in the Plain

The farmer in me cries
when I see another highway scratched
through the soil.
But the farmer in me knows the history,
when he took a few long scratches
out of the earth, himself,
from the prairies that were there
before him.

A sea of stalks heaving
grasses carried the boats
of bison, mammoths pounding,
soft-shoed feet slinking
respectfully through the mist.
A burn takes it down,
enriches its core,
it comes back again after again.


And now I know my scratching
has wiped it clean, no prairies left.
I have to dig, year after year,
I have to plant and weed
and harvest, year after year,
where the prairie once renewed itself
again after again.


[Published in Blue Fifth Review Poetry Special