Generational

My great-grandmother gave birth in a sod house on the prairie.

It was “warm in the winter and cool in the summer,”

my grandfather said, and he rode his little pony to school.

The walls were covered in newspapers and had to be repapered

from time to time and the floor swept continuously.

That’s why they call it “dirt poor,” Dad said.

And of course because of the dirty thirties

when they tied a rope around you to go out to the barn

to feed the animals in the dust blizzard.

No need for reading Steinbeck.

Give me Tolstoy, though, with the snow falling on the burning city

or the blue sky.

Sometimes, the sky is overwhelming.

The grass rolls on forever,

and the only shade is from an occasional cloud floating up above.

Some people call it “God’s Country.”

The fences don’t last long.

Wire must be restrung, and even the hedge posts won’t last forever.

When the ranchers burn off the pastures, one boy, too young, is put in charge of the gun,

shooting flaming field mice who dart out from the brush

to prevent fire from spreading.

Everyone pays attention to the wind.

Fire creates its own wind.

The prairie knows its own mind.

Tonight in Kansas City, sleeping on the 19th floor,

the tornado sirens sounded, and we ran down flight after flight

with the wind rushing through the parking garage, whistling through the doors.

Then we sat shoulder to shoulder watching the radar on our phones.

You rested your head up under my chin,

and it passed right by.