[Turner Cassity]

Winter Wheat


Our prairie views are skewered, ever West;
ours is a land of drought and blowing sand,
and any coursing eagle can attest
it is a chore to fathom western land.
The sun subsides behind the mountain’s breast,
embittered ranchers hoard the Kruggerand,
and last night when I lay down to my rest,
I heard my Father’s clarion command:

The word made flesh. I breathed this to Saint John
who stood beside my bride, my own son’s cross.
I built you mountains you could climb upon,
and once I even flooded inland seas
where winter wheat now rises to your knees.
You are my child. Do not compound my loss.



Comments:

“Mountain’s breast” is too cliché for the rest of the poem, which maintains a convincingly contemporary level of diction.