Buffalo Plains

We opened the earth,
Plowed the prairie grass
West of the ninety-eighth meridian.
But the cut will not heal,
Aridity permeates the skin
Underground tendrils surrender.

It makes for a good still life,
The roofless barn rafters
Dividing the beams of light,
The abandoned implements
Their brown rusted forks
Eroding in the once fields.

Some places are better with no people
Some places are better further apart.
Dry expanse stretches existence,
Hooves of wild herds travel far,
Constant migration renews canvass
And graves are painted no more.

Frank Anderson