Prairie Poetry   

You speak to me in moons
they come at night in the shape
of coyote mouths, trembling
like a siren against the dog's howl.

I hear you in the cool grey
of mountain ash, your voice crackles
near my window, as you enter dreams
becoming words to a lost song.

When the sun rises, your voice
ripens on the fields.  I place my ear
to the ground and listen for you.

Before these days I've known you
your image burnished on the blackened
edge of mountain, in the slow descent
of midnight, I remember your name.

  Lois P. Jones
  Copyright © 2005 Lois P. Jones
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