i know this land. how many times
have I wended my way among
the juniper scrubs and waded
through knee-high prairie grass
to reach the old osage orange
at the top of the field, then stared
out over the expanse of the next
ten acres, wondering what the
farmer was fixing to plant next?
I have seen it gold with wheat
and I have seen it fallow; I have
seen snow-like cotton caught
and shaking on brittle withered
stalks in the november wind.
and yet, how much of its natural
history will I never know, thanks
to time, and distance, and the
otherwise-spent attentions of
disinterested youth? it grieves
me, sometimes, to wonder what
I might have known had I cared
to look beyond what I thought
I knew.
I imagined you here, too,
once upon a time—and tracing
the trails together, hunting puffballs
in the cedars, meandering down
the road to watch the sunset.
I would tell you how my childhood
once hung on the walls of the low
brown house behind us and how
the laughter-haunted halls still
echo with memories every time
I walk by.
I would tell you, but
we gave away the key,
and now this land
I knew belongs only
to memory.
