Tuesday, May 19, 2009

The Prize

What will we do tonight
on the edge of the cracked shrub-steppe?
We can go around green mounds,
in between them are canyons,
we'll lay bare our options to the unfolding
storm clouds.

The river was invited across baslt layers,
each one pushing until it couldn't.
Land waits.
No one I know cares to push their feet in to
the mix of sagebrush and grasses like I do.

You know it's not ending
in the stilted shadows across
great plains, and you know it
won't end in the desert-cold nights.
The farm lands have all faded in to
the deepest of memories and I'm
left with a lantern to fade with
the dusk.

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