yotehuntrParticipantAugust 4, 2009 at 4:05 pmPost count: 759
Reading this makes me realize just how lucky we are to be Iowans.
No one who lives here
knows how to tell the stranger
what it’s like, the land I mean,
farms all gently rolling
squared off by roads and fences,
creased by streams, stubbled with groves,
a land unformed by the mountain’s height
or tides of either ocean.
A land in its working clothes,
sweaty with dew, thick-skinned loam,
a match for the men who work it,
breathes dust and pollen, wears furrows
and meadows, endures drought and flood,
muscles swell and bulge in horizons
of corn, lakes of purple alfalfa,
a land drunk on spring promises,
half-crazed with growth-I can no more
tell the secrets of its dark depths
than I can count the banners in a
farmer’s eye at spring planting.
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