I, with more knowledge
of sand than dirt,
came late to mid-country,
to miles of land with no ocean,
to the catch of breath that,
once released, takes flight.
Traveling east to west
I felt nostalgia to which
I had no right
at the sight of quilted fields
and weathered barns.

Somewhere in Iowa he said,
“This land is so boring.”

If asked to mark
the beginning of the end of us
I would hold that moment
In my cupped hand
like so much seed,
and scatter it behind a plow.