Prairie Poetry   
  The Harp

Here in the vast clearing,
no wind writing the world,
the unheard silver music
breaks evening’s quieter surface,
finishing the light, the hour,
while those near glisterings—
sprite-winged dragonflies,
etheric green flames—
dance in the heart’s ear.

That song, that song I
can’t sing but have here
tonight on the plains—
ten thousand fires and
memory in the smoke—
how I love the strum
and tone of it falling from
the bowl, the womb
above the graves.

  Andrés Rodríguez
  Copyright © 2008 Andrés Rodríguez
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