a girl of the plains

In the past week I have been thinking more and more about my ties to the land and nature as well as weather. In light of the recent tornadoes that hit the hometowns of the various family members of mine, I wrote these two poems. 

Girl of the Plains

The sky is angry

And the girl of the plains

Waits quietly on the porch

She sits perched on the railing

The rain oozing from the dark clouds

Onto her curly mane

She watches

And waits

For the calm

The stillness

That precedes the eruption

The monster of the skies

Growls its warning

To the people of the wheat

Hide in your bathtubs

Your closets

Under the stairs

Cower in corners

And under beds to escape the unpredictable

The clouds begin to glow

A soft and iridescent orange

The farmers know so well

They look to the heavens

Their dirt covered faces

Silently pleading for a pardon

Not my crop

My home

My sweat and blood

For the tireless soil

That is embedded beneath my nails

And in the crevices of my hands

Spare this man

Save this soul

But the wind knows no heart

No mercy

Or solitude

Its destruction descends from the skies

In the shape of a funnel

Dark and brooding

It knows no path

And provides no reason

Because saved or not

Mother nature is upon you

And the burden of the moment

Hangs around your neck

And the little Kansas girl on the porch

Feet bare

And calloused

And beaten

Moves not an inch

As the monster draws near

Her stringy hair falls flat

And the trees cease to blow

And the dog begins to whimper

But she moves not an inch

Because this little Kansas girl

Descended from the dirt

And the small town

Is tied to the land

And the wind

And the soil that is permanently smeared

On her freckled face

And caked beneath her fingernails

Show knows no fear

Because the plains will call her home.

Ghost of the Tall Grass

Page 4A

Next to the sick and the elderly

Is you

The girl of the plains

Captured in printed word

A desperate attempt to preserve

That which so easily slipped through humanity’s fingers

The wind

The dirt

And the land 

Have claimed you

Taken you for their own

A ghost of the tall grass

And red soil

Mamma cries for you

And the villagers mourn your absence

With vigils

And prayers

To a god whose motives remain quiet

And subdued

It is you

The young ones, who are

Intertwined with tragedy

Speeding along in a pickup

Toward the mouth of the plains

Ready to swallow

You

Up.