Prairie Land

This is a land of no beginnings.

We know nothing of origin.

Ancestors are children are ancestors.

And the globe turns.

Do not come seeking answers

In the creaking descent of roots,

In the spreading wings of the crane,

In wildfire.

This is a land of no beginnings.

Do not come to weave stories, caught in the blind progression of time.

Before the grass was wind and silt,

Loess and clay.

Before the wind,

Ice sank its teeth into the land.

Mountains poured streams eastward from upturned palms.

The great sea ebbed and flowed.

Do not ask when the sea ends

And the golden heads of little bluestem begin.

Look closely. Listen well.

We are one and the same.

Do not be frightened

to discover that you can no longer see

where you end and We begin.

The song you’re singing is Myth.

You are a land of no beginnings.

Your arms are silky prairie clover.

Your eyes are grasshopper sparrows.

Your feet are golden aster.

We are all one and the same.


As you work your plow.

As you work your will.

As you introduce endings —


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