Dredged up from the archives of my past by the prompt from dVerse Poets Pub with the poet Ted Kooser's poem in mind So This Is Nebraska.
With hay cut and drying in the sun,
I see those strong boys paid to help.
Heavy bales to lift, throw, and stack,
chaff in our hair, sweat down our backs.
We gathered at the hydrant,
close but not touching. Closer than touching.
Thigh-high in goldenrod
on a wend among the boulders,
glacial erratic that lined the fence
worn pocket tops caught the rain
and made a seat for dreams of Oread
hawks and love and common things
and lent a view of the jagged line
of rogue apple trees
that grew along the creek
in unmannered ways,
withstood the winds of winter
and bore uncommon fruit
without the nod of a care from us.