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.
