“How Soon?”

Nebraska Sand Hills Monster Supercell Storm“How Soon?”

How soon? I would be rid of rooms and paperweights
That cheat the scales and calculate the tales of whatever I’m about.
And when the last hour’s phatic pleasantries are made and I am  out
The door, I’ll be charging headlong for the fields beyond the artificial dates
Of screaming calendars to feed on endless smiles,
The natural harvests of grasslands stretched beneath my feet. I’ll greet
The memories and naked weathering winds on new-plowed yields to seed,
The freshly mined scores of sapphires, lavenders in wild-flowers though miles
Of crisp and fresher verse, the swelling pregnant soils between the harvest
And the husbandman.  For just so sweet a pause as this, oh, yes!
Nebraska’s wheaten seas sustain the subtle sirens of the shallow Platte and west
Beyond the borders of the sandhills; here, the meadowlarks nest
And little else. But, no, I’ll not hold the birthplace of these sonnets’ true rebuttal;
And labours at the loom, the weaver’s warp and woof that’s lost his shuttle.

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2 responses to ““How Soon?”

  1. fly, feet of foot, fly and tread the bare earth. How soon? Whenever you can. x

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