Midwest

Midwest a poem by richard j. elgersma 

Have you seen the plains of the midwest? I have. I have. Rolls of hay match the natural sway of the land full of wheat, barley and corn touched golden by the midwest sun, a different kind of sun than anywhere in the world if you ask me. Because my sun drips honey dew across the grasses and every living thing. A full warm, familiar, and comforting honeypot tips over the horizon; Sweet abundance garnished with strawberry red and clementines. 

I lived where the streets, full of bicycles and kids and safe laughter somewhere outside the worry of their parents who seem mostly satisfied that they're ok. 

I live in pain and dusted memories, sometimes fresh and afoul, and sometimes drowned in the pheasants cry, and the geese clamoring above in their original peloton. 

God eyes and angels visit this place, all unawares until you've pressed this land for all she's got, leaned into her aggressive hills, wrestled with the hearts of her hard-working souls. And like the honeybee sunk in colorcaves and pollen rest, you lie pillowed on your back in prairies, counting sheep and inventing worlds in clouds.