Prairie Grasses

By way of deep underground
an aquifer fills cisterns
with contemplative living,
and there’s just enough water for the fields
where prairie grasses willow upward,
dancing their gentle samba or waltz,
coins not needed for the jukebox
as the breeze freely plays
different songs with different rhythms,
each slender reed topped by a tuft,
hairs plucked right off Mother Earth’s braids
spun into a sea of paintbrushes;

with these appendages she reaches up from the soil
creating masterpieces every day and night,
while far beneath the well billows some primal fire
or just as easily falls out of sky a blue softness,
colors dabbed off her palette
into brushstrokes on canvases
melting into vibrancy what’s behind my eye,
some eternal call of the wild assurance wispy mystery
remains truer and stronger than Plato and Aristotle

—perhaps the difference
I’ve placed myself in this high desert
far enough away to get close beside
vastly secondary words from my pen
along with good and broken friends,
my prairie of books, arisen from the same well,
pages containing letters which still rather than frenzy,
yet land me in my village after the fire
as if I’ve been spit from its ghastly flames.

That I put this on paper contemplates a new sprout:
some radiant proclivity rising from below
while also falling from sky
evaporates before settling onto ground;
this virga, in between rain or air,
invisible true love
flows into a Dixie cup
held by the carbon speck called me
until I drink it down
and become one more bending stalk.

Published in – Tiger’s Eye Journal

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