My admiration to you
who came before me, in your
dress that brushes worn plank floors
there in some cabin, far from
your hands are about laundry, your mind
about the azure sky above
scrubbing thread-bare daughter-dresses
knuckles against the washboard
and children laughing
through tall grass that waves like an ocean,
silvers in the summer sun
you, looking up
pause a moment and just breathe
gaze over it all
with eyes adjusted to distance
and these miles and miles
of open, wide open
under all that sky
This photo, a writing-gift from friend Darlene, inspired me to write a poem.  Somehow, I saw in it the pioneers….I could see this being the view from the porch of a little log cabin in there under the scrubbed-out sky, could feel the breeze blowing and see the grass wave.  Perhaps it was because Middle Child is sitting behind me, reading Laura Ingles for the 99th time…more likely, it’s because Darlene is the closest thing to a Pioneer I’ve ever met…she, there, in her little house on the hilltop under all that sky with her horse-trough bathtub and wood cookstove, weaving words instead of stitching samplers and wearing Wranglers rather than petticoats, but?  She’s the real deal, yes she is.  And, thank you, friend, for a reason to write!

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