That’s what it looked like
where I was born.

Two dimensions.
The austere geometry.

The distances
intersecting at right angles.

A landscape
stricken of elevation.

Yes, there was a greening
when the June sun

lifted the corn and rye.
Yes, there were

the trickles of water
over gentle rises.

Yes, we rocked ourselves
as the prairie winds

weaved through the poplars.
But the summer died young

and when that sky
turned to slate in December,

it left a whiteness
that was deep and endless.

And we burned
what we could to stay warm.