“Setting out”

dark at the edge of the ten-mile prarie
my future rolls out like a carpet before me
the cloth of my shirt feels the wash of a breeze
as the strawgrass, too, whispers and swings

so here in the light, i am squat in the dirt
where the strawgrass runs downhill to the river
and the sun lays its light on top of the stems
interrupted by clouds with no sense for the sacred

the dirt of the field, my father once told me,
and the hand of the man are not seperate things;
you work hard every day and your soul will find peace
–he died with a smile, so i’m inclined to believe

my lover, i would carry you over a mountain
and when you feel lost, know i am with thee
in a year of days, i will surely return
though my time on the trail is pushing against me