Post by robmerritt on Feb 12, 2011 12:45:23 GMT -5
Understanding Horizons
to the lady of the prairies
“The I Ching translates this ordered universe into a system of parallel symbols.”
I passed through Nebraska once,
in 1976. I remember the trees
of Lincoln,
civic and comforting,
in the square before the courthouse
as I drove west to Oregon
alone.
The vistas there urge you to see distance,
deep.
Why does you in that place
make me think of “Return of the Native”
or “Long Black Veil”?
Solitary women ranging borderlands,
restless, searching for a way to quench
longing.
I see them in woolen cloaks
against sleet,
but I see you only in summer,
time of sunlight and free arms—
once you entered a room dripping
from a thunderstorm,
somehow undisheveled.
You are unsatisfied
because you write stories
not your own.
Go to your desk,
prairie sunset
bleeding outside your window,
and stride into your mind
notating the furniture of memory,
hope and imagination:
the bridges, balconies, and green fields
to the lady of the prairies
“The I Ching translates this ordered universe into a system of parallel symbols.”
I passed through Nebraska once,
in 1976. I remember the trees
of Lincoln,
civic and comforting,
in the square before the courthouse
as I drove west to Oregon
alone.
The vistas there urge you to see distance,
deep.
Why does you in that place
make me think of “Return of the Native”
or “Long Black Veil”?
Solitary women ranging borderlands,
restless, searching for a way to quench
longing.
I see them in woolen cloaks
against sleet,
but I see you only in summer,
time of sunlight and free arms—
once you entered a room dripping
from a thunderstorm,
somehow undisheveled.
You are unsatisfied
because you write stories
not your own.
Go to your desk,
prairie sunset
bleeding outside your window,
and stride into your mind
notating the furniture of memory,
hope and imagination:
the bridges, balconies, and green fields
