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.)