The Rest on the Great Plains: Sentinels
Laura Madeline Wiseman
In the morning, not a farmer, a hand, or even a detassler,
if you lift as regular as water towers, you’re our guard
on dawn’s horizon. You look out from each town,
holding onto the golden grains given to your care.
You’re a custodian to land that stretches endless
green and waving. Yet pedaling hard, a bit faint,
close to sunstroke around noon, almost to the next
skyscraper, the road wavers and it’s possible
to feel how you keep ahold of travelers adrift on wind,
trying to get to any place ahead among real friends.
Sentry built like a pillar, a tower to fill with riches,
bless us all. Patrol—the wheat shimmers, ready
for harvest, and the corn is ankle height and growing.
We’re almost half-way and the guide is this land.
if you lift as regular as water towers, you’re our guard
on dawn’s horizon. You look out from each town,
holding onto the golden grains given to your care.
You’re a custodian to land that stretches endless
green and waving. Yet pedaling hard, a bit faint,
close to sunstroke around noon, almost to the next
skyscraper, the road wavers and it’s possible
to feel how you keep ahold of travelers adrift on wind,
trying to get to any place ahead among real friends.
Sentry built like a pillar, a tower to fill with riches,
bless us all. Patrol—the wheat shimmers, ready
for harvest, and the corn is ankle height and growing.
We’re almost half-way and the guide is this land.