More than One or Two

I need there to be writers from Indiana
(not so many writers,
not too many writers,
but more than one or two.)

I need there to be a dress
in the way the wheat bends its knees to the wind
like a lover forced to confess.
Does the heartland beat like the wandering feet
in Dante’s and Kerouac’s chest?

I'd dissolve in Cali;
a drop in the ocean.
A cornstalk scorched by the sun,
I’d wither and fall     in New York City
with buildings too tall and too young.
I need to be
a tree on a hill
with old oaks to lend me their rings;
a lark that is joined by a chorus of few,
unique in the song that it sings.

due to some unfortunate complications, i can't get rid of this word box. oh well.

I need to know writers grow in Indiana
not just to be grafted away.

There must be writers of red-cast skies
of tiny hands picking blackberries that dye
the guilt-stained smiles and tell-tale tongues
blue from impatience for process of pies…
Theirs is a song that must not go unsung.

The pen flows smooth when taken to tales
of bales and harvest moons.
Does the heartland sing like a thing of wings?
Ask Sandburg to hum you the tune.

The rhythm and heave of trains endures
through shrill cicada nights.
The lakes and trees still buzz with warmth
and cradle soft porch lights.

I know there are writers from Indiana;
the heartland thrives and swoons.
(not so many writers
not too many writers,
but more than one or two.)

This is one of those days when I feel the seams coming together ...
so many things I've ripped apart and trimmed again, are finally ready to be sewn into harmony.

I feel a strong sense of purpose, without knowing any better what I'm doing than I did last week, or even last year.
It's weird how important it is to demolish everything and start new, even if all you do is erect a structure very similar to, if not exactly, what you had before.

I'm vague tonight because being specific would take too long and I need to go to sleep.... but if you're interested in one concrete example, I've realized that I love my old broken down '93 Toyota.  And no matter what wheel you put me behind, I will always be the girl in the little broken-down car. I will always be a mess, and I'm beginning to let myself off the hook for that.  Sir Charles reminds me of my sister and my brother-in-law, because they started dating with this car. I like that Sir Charles was gift. I like that almost everything I own was a gift. It makes me feel like I don't have a right to cling to tightly to any of my things, because they fell into my lap so undeservedly.

It's always these days when I get the least amount of work done.
sigh....