WYOMING SKY

WYOMING SKY 

If I call you sometime, from the heart of Iowa,

where the corn whispers secrets to the wind in husky rustles,

will you cradle my heartbeat in the hollow of your palm,

a fragile bird fluttering against your skin, feathers soft with fear,

tucked under your pillow like a dream half-remembered?

I miss you, like the ache of a half-forgotten song,

notes lingering in the dry autumn air.  

The barn roof sags under the weight of years,

paint peeling like promises left to fade in the sun’s glare—

no surprise, really. We all trace the veins of highways,

asphalt ribbons cutting through fields,

seeking a pulse beyond the horizon, some great escape.

We rise with the rooster’s crow, throats raw with hymns

to the fading stars, their light snagged in dew-heavy webs,

eyes scanning the endless sky,

chasing the why, the what-for, the reason it all spins.  

So I ask, plain as the prairie:

doesn’t this tug at you, too?

Is this a field, endless as possibility,

stalks bowing under golden weight,

or a tunnel, walls closing in like doubt,

dirt-crusted and cold?

Am I breaking through, or just shouting into the wind,

voice swallowed by the vastness?

Oh, this is the best we can do, and oh, we’re hanging on,

a grain of salt for every truth we swore we’d pinned down,

gritty between our teeth.  

We stand steady, roots digging deep into the stubborn earth,

boots caked with black soil,

ears pressed to the frost-kissed ground,

straining for the rumble of distant thunder

or the whisper of grace through shivering grass—

hoping we’ll know it when it hums,

what we’re listening for, what we’re listening for…  

And someday, I’ll call,

voice steady as the prairie breeze,

say I saw a bluebird, a sapphire flash against the gray,

darting over rusted silos,

crossed a mountain, its peak piercing the clouds like a prayer answered,

jagged and snow-dusted,

and I believe in this, in us, in now—

yes, now, I believe in this, in now.  

Oh, this is the best we can do, and oh, we’re hanging on,

ears still tuned, hearts still hungry,

for what we’re listening for, what we’re listening…  

So if I call you sometime, from the Midwest,

where the stars hang low and the nights hum with possibility,

crickets stitching the dark with sound,

will you keep my pulse close, a steady beat in your dreams?

I miss you, like the quiet after the storm,

when the air holds its breath and the world feels new.