Midwestern Mythologies

The Midwestern sky is dusty green

Pregnant with storm, swollen, round bellied

Oppressive heat palm pressing

Trees groaning, sweat rising from pavements

Pressure building to ache within the bones

A summons, a harbinger.

The heartlands have a pulse

Blue white veins jagged, tracings of fire

Jehovah’s hand scribbling out

The All Father’s sky lore runes

In the shadows you can see Yggdrasil

Iron grey spearhead clouds

Piercing mythologies.

There is something about the prairie

Something that dreams beneath waves

Of black earth and liquid, churning sky

Terrible silence is the finger upon lips

Sealing them to dumbness

Locking away all of the secrets

Leaked in sibilance

As endless wind over grass like sword blades.

There is manifold shape in emptiness

It can easily be seen

Pinion stretching horizon to horizon

The thunderbird could only have been born

From new eyes looking up for the first time

Into skies pregnant with storms

Over tossing seas of grass.


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