If you came to Iowa now, you would find
Prairie grasses talking, some to themselves
Prairie grasses talking, some to themselves
Tired from a summer of waving and shouting
To every passing car and plane, some in hushed
Tones under a feather blanket of earlier-than-expected snow.
Some would be pointing right up at the heavens,
The memory still fresh of being razor-sharp and green.
Blades now brown and edges worn smooth,
They rage to God against the dying of the light.
And to their neighbors, who they are sure cannot hear,
They brag, "If summer never ended, I could have made it,
They rage to God against the dying of the light.
And to their neighbors, who they are sure cannot hear,
They brag, "If summer never ended, I could have made it,
Made it all the way....."
One holds the record for bending so as not to break.
He tells terrible tales of coming back from near dead,
He tells terrible tales of coming back from near dead,
Of being cut, mowed and trampled.
One does not speak; the wind plays his body like a saw.
Can you hear the wobbly melody?
Heel and toe, heel and toe, heel and toe.
To the wonder of having learned to dance
Among a rustling symphony of shaking shoulders,
To having existed at all.
Heel and toe, heel and toe, heel and toe.
To the wonder of having learned to dance
Among a rustling symphony of shaking shoulders,
To having existed at all.
Sarah Averill,
Novermber 28, 2013
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