IN THE PRAIRIE
In the prairie, there are small fenced cemeteries, family plots. The flat expanse of land opens to the eye; hand carved monuments stand in testimony to love and service. In these places grow the wild flowers… bluebells, paintbrush, lupines, and all manner of reedy grasses… these places cordoned off from mechanization and Agra-business. Held in trust are the bones of loved ones and the soul of nature. Deep inside me is a place like this. The place I have buried my young—the little ones who died of shame, neglect, and hurt. And I must return, not to exhume the dead, but to pay tribute. To return with honor and love, harvest the daisies and buttercups, grow them in the garden of my heart. I can tend the flowers that spring from destruction. I can mingle them with the growth of my sober life; restore my prairie to a splendor it has never known. I can enjoy the bounty of saving the seeds worth saving, and planting my Higher Power’s will for me.
Make a list of decoys.
Endlessly Moving Maps
I try to survive by memorizing the chaos.
I do well up to five layers deep
and then lose it, as the details become too great.
I am staking my life on my ability to track the patterns
in a storm while at the same time treading water.
I think this skill kept life and breathe in me for many years.
Now I fear I’ll drown in this roiling mass.
I must touch down my tender toes
and learn to walk this twisting path
and keep a pace with this spinning world.
Everything moves and I am overwhelmed.
I have forgotten my flesh and blood nature;
have mistaken myself for a stone, one which dare not roll,
one which has no part in this endlessly moving map.