A Poem Written in Summer

Here is a poem about Indiana. It is called

The Dumping of the Superfluous

I came back from the prairie

to be among the veiled trees.

Back from farm fields, open and windy,

under a weighted sky -

from where I scrambled and scratched like a vole.

Vulnerable I was,

a target for a screaming hawk, like the juvenile robin struck

and killed, but not carried off.

I am not a white woman today

but a native woman out of

Appalachia, whose ancestors crossed the New Madras Fault

over the Trail of Tears. It is hard to be forced

to march to a western desert.

Relieved I am to be back in the little house,

sheltered by quiet redbud trees,

their heart-shaped leaves a screen

from the parade of cars

checking out the remains

of the house fire down the block

the charred railing looking like some

toothpick bordello in New Orleans.

I am canopied from the sun and wind.

A chorus of cicadas and crickets salute me.

They love their trees,

and although silence is blessed on the open prairie,

the dominant spirit is king blue stem grass

and I can't feel its old soul like I can that of the trees.

On the peaceful river,

water lilies have returned to flower.

In a dozen years,

I have never seen them here.

In the yard, first the bumblebees,

the groundhog,

and now the black squirrel has discovered

the neglected pear tree.

It seems as though he is confused

and feels an instinctive need to bury pears like walnuts.

He stuffs his cheeks with them, and then tries to dig another hole.

Unable to bury them all, he sits under the maple

and enjoys another one,

munching, chewing thoughtfully.

SLG