February Tanka
February was a fast-moving train that rolled through every few hours, shook the house, and moved on—time for new horizons.
My bed for the night. Belle Plaine, Kansas.
A little backstory:
In February, I found myself all points west of the Mississippi—from Arkansas to Oklahoma to Kansas. The last place my feet landed was a lovely little blip on the map called Belle Plaine, Kansas. We arrived after dark and my generous hosts put me up in a guest house at the Bartlett Arboretum.
It was Valentine’s Day and I crashed their dinner, though I felt the warmth they shared with me.
They put me to bed with extra blankets piled on top of my body and my tired head faded into a delirious and happy sleep.
In the middle of the night, though, I woke up as my body rhythmically rocked back and forth: a train was traveling through. And, in my dream state haze, it could have been right outside the door for all I knew. The horn blew a time or two in the distance and the Burlington Northern rocked me gently back to sleep with a smile on my face.
How damned dreamy.
The next morning, after coffee and conversation with some new acquaintances, the Soil Sisters and one Soil Brother (a group of dedicated volunteers who help plan, prepare, and plant for the spring and summer seasons at the Arboretum), I took advantage of a small window of time to take a lap around the grounds.
Nothing was blooming yet on the property, but this place had a magic to it. I could feel it through the frost as I walked on the trails, past the outbuildings, and around the edge of the pond. My heart was pounding under the cold ground just as hard as I imagined the perennials were, impatiently waiting for spring.
I wrote a poem for my hosts based on our car ride into Belle Plain sunset. Side note: It has since gone to a poetry class and gotten a critique…so we’ll see how she changes from the first iteration below. Since you have the backstory, it may be easier to flow with the idea.
Little Moth
Tulsa grit
washed clean off
with each click of
the odometer,
with each whisper past
the mile markers,
the unraveling spool of
yellow yarn rolling out from underneath us
joining junctions of interstate and two-lane highways—
where soon enough
darkness rose in the air,
subtle as gasoline fumes.
We fluttered westward towards
a porchlight glow
that stretched its arms
wide with welcome across the horizon,
beckoning us home.
"I had a friend once tell me
Kansas is a little too much sky."
No, never! said this little moth.
I turned my eyes back
towards the blinding brilliance before me,
lifted off into the night
and got
joyfully lost.
