Prairie lands—
long broken by the plow,
form fields now—
and far as eyes can see
dark furrows—gashed—
lie open to the sky
and rivers, far and few between
run dry beneath the summer’s sun;
and there-abouts some factory farmers say
there’s not much use for trees—except as memories
of families who sunk roots,
raised food from precious hoarded seeds
and saved selected trees,
to break the wind
and shade the scattered homes—
of all those long gone folks
who called this land their own.There’s stories in them trees.
They say that people came, and stayed,
lived and died and watched and prayed.
Each tree spread leaves
against the aches and heat of day;
and tired women hoped each baby pine
would quickly grow
to break the steady winds’
incessant blows
and slow vast drifts of snow
driving ‘cross the lonely spaces
they’d laid claim to as their places.
Ginny Emery ©
