Father, Son, River Valley
In the autumn of his life
he brings his son here
one last time
to a riverside corn field
where curved necks
of Sandhill cranes
sheen the golden stalks
at sunset in swooping
brush strokes.
The classroom was his
nesting ground where
he lent his students
his eyes to look the world
over, decide themselves
if their vision had merit.
He tilts his windbreak brow
into mapled light fragments
and whispers to his son
They migrate the soul
to skies too huge for
pettiness.
They migrate the soul,
feral spirits honed to
reach a point,
wings freshly molted
wait to be summoned
the way ideas take
shape in linguistic motion
and extend like bones
through cognition.
They migrate the soul,
teach us the power
of being on time,
conviction of where to go
how to get there, just
a deep nerve burn.
They migrate the soul,
see compass direction
as visual image
the same way we’re taught
look down when humbled,
up when we pray.
The woven stream rivers
hollow hymnal notes of
pure harvest songs
behind two men with nothing
left to say in words Nebraska
just blows away.
Ready now, son steps away
from father, nearer than
he’s ever dared, he
crouches where the prairie
vibrates in color, this land
drunk on February rain.
Their mystical takeoff, full
of heart beat, full of corn
seeds, full of tiny hands
on a gnarled face, love tough
as muskthistle roots, full of
goodbye,
pulls him up straight,
a man absolute,
entranced
by the smattering of fall,
stretch of the horizon,
the size of the world.
_____
Seasonal Prayer
What is this creek
this pasture
this river valley world?
It’s the salty cow skull in afternoon sun crack
space black eye holes open portals
to old songs sung in vowels of grief-
the prophets of sandhill spring
who saunter out to do us another dance-
the palatable distance in the Herring’s wingspan sky blue wide
tracing heaven in looping brush strokes
listen to the land.
It’s a dancing secret on the breath of the morning fawn-
a boy with buffalo grass at the root of his marrow
born all over to become a man-
child to father to clod to corn to dust to blue wingspan
listen to the land.
What is this cow skull creek bed
breathing bull frog vocal sac
trailing tears of black ants marching
what is it’s sunflower burden?
It’s bovine esophagus
gushing chemical run-off
to charcoal spits under sycamore scowl
listen, it’s the old man driven by allegiance to land
like a lime oak leaf bleeds November
stays ahead of the first snow’s surge-
it’s a place panting to keep up
stay productive proficient worthwhile.
Listen to the pasture creek’s braided brain whisper
as it crawls on four generation knees
gutted jagged by green sky tooth
minnow sprinkle gums
cubescent tears
greasy sweat blood
shattercane swirls in prairie worlds
reflected time in manure love spa
cobalt mornings
majestic midnights
carries the weight of me.
Who is this boy with buckled knees
ready to cross to the other bank?
Whose hands are these that bleed ether steel weather the wind?
He’s the man you’ll become.
It’s the hoarfrost that’s called
in December crystals
that star barbed wire
wrenched and wrapped tight like varicose veins
around skull hard hands
and blue wingspan.
What is this spirit wave
this cottonwood trance?
Let the pasture creek call in floods of forever
divide and disperse all motion
all time let it run here die here
be born all over here
rush wave rush ripple ripple
zippergrass dip.
Who is this boy rising from buffalo grass marrow
in June columns of glory
to wingspan heaven blue?
It was you
the morning fawn whispers
as you drench the father’s hands
with the son’s soaked soil clod.
Locked eyes join the banks over whippoorwill waves
that drown anhydrous hiss and rattle
with old prairie oceans sung in vowels of grief.
Let it run let it roar let it bleed let it sing let it rollover
listen listen listen to the land.
______ |
