Missouri

Near Saint Joseph the fields sigh and corn stands up
against nearly any weather. Our sleep is filled
with still air in which thousands of crickets
ceaselessly rub their bandied legs
while we kick free of our blankets
in the night. It is a relief to hear you breathe,
your low snore a solid presence I recognize—
not quite my lost southwestern foothills
whose hunched silhouettes seemed so much protection,
but, still, something raised against the seamless prairie.
The sun comes in early, dragging the day's heat
in a close wake. We rattle among the bars of light
that stripe our rooms. Did you notice?
There are shadows from nothing but ourselves
where we walk in the ragged crab grass.

Copyright © 2007 Rebecca Aronson All rights reserved
from Creature, Creature
Main-Traveled Roads Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission