The Arboretum
A poem
Standing on the hilltop of the prairie, Crown of the Palouse
Hills sprawl roundabout, the trees are whipped and loose
The wind is a whirling dervish, but there is no devil’s dust
To kick up in a field and kindle fire, no smoke to fill his pipe
He must brush the grass, rake through every patch of straw and
rumple the silver lake until it has scales like a dragon.
Far in the west the blue sky shines like a polished turquoise ring
This vision banishes everything. The clouds ring it in, corral the spot
Push it away with heavy intent. These clouds are deeper and
larger than the fallow ground I stand on. This prairie is a cup to hold
a larger older country. A firmament of water, ponderous billows of ice and
electricity. Behind me a row of trees stand sentinel, a green to rival any.
No bright emerald can achieve the lovely bough of white pine in its prime.
Incense rises from their ruffled tresses. No bird dares sit on any branch.
After many days inside, this countryland I call home lies clear on my eye, it
banishes the leather armchairs and sconces, and brings to memory all good
things. Every musty room it shines on and surpasses Augustine in wonder
and alluring knowledge. I know how the kestrel feels as he kneels on the wire,
only I cannot fly.
Photo courtesy Public Domain Image Archive