Pulling Away From Thursday Morning Cornfields White waking limb reaching out from under the cover

hitting the alarm, the abominable sound silenced, unhinged and able in the vacuum to invite faint yellow light from the blue curtained window waiting on druthers: A day of work ahead, a day of little tokens gained and given, or something else... but then the curtains blow in the sealed breeze and like that, mind over matter, the moment is seized: Sepia movie pictures of metal moving cars with open windows, The kind you rolled down by handle, In Iowa fields of simple dreams passing by and pollinating A small boy's mind, his head barely out in the wind, hair blowing, Blue eyes searching endless fields of corn as behind The vortex cloud of tan dust from the car on the gravel road spins up and hangs... The heartland is on fire under the sun rotating Through the summer lazy blue sky and skimming-by white clouds. Curtains blowing in the morning rising breeze Trapped in breathing, a stirring...a silence... Trapped in leaving Speaking to the dead Living in the mind, in the firing Of heartland memories and back to Iowa, Of grandfather pulling weeds from the edge of his cornfield And grandmother baking those special sugar cookies Laid out on a metal rack on the green counter to cool, The aroma visible white like in a cartoon, leading me as a child to the source, And her turning away, knowingly, smiling, as I slip a too-hot cookie to a young mouth... The heartland is on fire, Rain pours over the levee, Tears drain the pool. Flute-man leads the king's children off for a beggar's ransom,... Dripping sand in their eyes... Sleepers sleeping in their star-burst sight... The alarm is hit again and legs pinion against the carpet, nerves needled and wheedled, mind looks at the work ahead - lists run over and notes noted. A day ahead, in the brick building and no-nonsense cube walls.

© 2011, The Jotter

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