Prairie Prayer

when I died
Samuel buried me
in the breast of our land:

cross made of wood
carted in from somewhere back East,

a cairn of stones
each pulled one at a time
by his hands.

then he remarried
and continued to draw corn from the dirt.

all things come from the dirt,
all things return.

the cross dried in the prairie sun
its splinter bones blowing.

the rocks settled
and forgot their purpose.

by then Samuel, too, was gone.
as were his wife
and their children.

my thoughts come closer
to the wind each season
so that sometimes I cannot tell
who is speaking of

carrying grasshoppers
and bees
and pollen

and who of

forgotten husbands
and unfinished wombs.