A form change poem

(with thanks to David Bouchard, If You’re Not From the Prairie . . . )

 

If you’re not from Kansas,

You don’t know the clouds,

A place where the wind flies in circles,

The thunder sounds like a drum,

The rain pours as the lightning crashes like cymbals.

 

If you’re not from Kansas,

You don’t know the rain,

The feel of sprinkles on your hair,

The mist on your cheeks,

The ground shaking with every drop,

Boots get soaked,

Kids jump in puddles,

You don’t know the rain.

 

If you’re not from Kansas,

You don’t know the land,

A place where ether do bands,

Farms where there’s no harm

People milk cows,

The world is flat like a wall.

You don’t know the land.

 

If you’re not from Kansas,

You don’t know the grass.

It moves like a blanket,

It follows the wind,

The grass is what kids play in on cool summer days.

You don’t know the grass.

 

If you’re not from Kansas,

You don’t know birds,

As they sing every song, play every tone,

Fly in the air,

And dance.

You don’t know birds.

 

Kansas is a place where the birds sing,

The clouds dance,

The grass is a blanket,

The rain drips from the sky.

My eyes are hawk’s eyes looking over the land,

My hair is the grass the wind pushes,

My arms are the trees,

My nails are the whispering leaves.

I love Kansas.