Prairie Aubade

Fossil-pocked limestones scrimshaw 
the top soil and dare a rasp to hone 
its plow. Burnished switchgrass 
transfigures green when last years’ 
dregs catch fire. It takes a hedge of 
Osage orange to spare the primrose.

Summers are torrid, lusty trysts,
and falls—brief amber flings.

Out of the blue, nips fray the breeze
and squirrel-away cottonwood tailings 
deep in bovine potholes. 

Tufts of coyote fur gather for the snows 
that will soon salt away old conestoga 
wounds, and I am vigilant: the lavender 
spiderwort lifts her skirt but once. 
Honeysuckle only flaunt to serve their roots.

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