prairie fire

Maybe you’ve never seen a man lose his hope in the smoke...

Maybe you’ve never seen
  A man lose his hope
      In the smoke of misfortune.
It’s possible the rake
  Sheltered that seed for you:
      That cold hour lonely-awake,
When the work was more
  Than a whistle while-ya,
      More than the cornhusk tan
Below a merciless dusk-in-blue.
  Trustier than Papaw’s promise-ta,
      It’s right next to true
That you arc out before the wheel
  Like an unharvested backroad—
      Stalk-stretched for the zenith-sun,
Lash-alive and yearningly surreal,
  Begging to be brought up
      From the row you’ve been laid in.
Love’ll water your wilt,
  Fill your cup with what’s to be won
      From that sweat-beaten-brow heat.
It’ll kiss your sweet desire
  And rob rest from the undone
      Night you’ve gone to waist-high wade in—
Bathed there, abandonedly bare,
  Stared-upon in all wonder by him,
      In the passion of prairie fire.

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