At age five
from the sun seared
backseat of my grandpa’s
electric blue Ford sedan,
I learned about windmills and
skiing . . .
up and over
hill upon hill
upon rolling thrill.
Tummy tickled
from within by
feather dusters held
in midair by a Divine magnet
for a hold your breath minute.
Then swoosh, schussing earthward
next to roadsides adorned
in first communion dresses
of lacy Yarrow and Meadowsweet.
Near swaying flax fields,
transfixed,
counting cows . . .
black/white, brown/white, bisque/fawn
prairie blossoms
with fanciful names . . .
Holstein, Guernsey, Jersey,
I memorized a sugar corn homily . . .
knee-high in July and
shutterbug clicked
farmhouses sheltered by
lush groves,
an upright piano
hand-knitting the hearthstone
inside each parlor.
Outside
a watchman in every yard . . .
head in the clouds
heels in the clay,
propelled by God’s breath
the windmill…
turn upon turning
air into water
into seeded furrows
for a future harvest.
His revolving voice
heralded…
enjoy me, enjoy me
pushing me further up the road,
a Gypsy moth
rollercoaster skiing
from the sun seared
backseat of my grandpa’s
electric blue Ford sedan,
all the way
to Sioux Country . . .
Iowa’s northwestern horizon
during the growing season.