This feels fragmentary, but I’m not quite sure where it wants to go. I’ll publish it as is for now and tuck it away in the back of my mind, in hope that it will ripen into something more satisfying.
Today’s poem was prompted by the Three of Staves from the Prairie Tarot. (Click here to see the card.)
Not all sailors go to sea
He thinks of the wide, flat horizon, the full-
circle sight line, the endless ocean
of prairie and desert. He dreams of undulating
grassland, waves of heat and light and wind
that roll without cease, without tide between
vague shapes that might be clouds
or mountains. He longs for the sharp ozone
bite of a gathering storm and the clean, dry
scent of sun-baked dust.