I love the images in this poem by Carol Light, of Washington 
state.
Prairie Sure 
Would I miss the way a breeze dimples 
the butter-colored curtains on Sunday mornings, 
or nights gnashed by cicadas and thunderstorms? 
The leaning gossip, the half-alive ripple 
of sunflowers, sagging eternities of corn  
and sorghum, September preaching yellow, yellow 
in all directions, the windowsills swelling 
with Mason jars, the blue sky bluest borne 
through tinted glass above the milled grains? 
The dust, the heat, distrusted, the screen door 
slapping as the slat-backed porch swing sighs, 
the hatch of houseflies, the furlongs of freight trains, 
and how they sing this routine, so sure, so sure— 
the rote grace of every tempered life?
 
 
.jpg) 
 
 
