High Plains Manifesto–Jeff Burt

High Plains Manifesto

 

We can be mountains of love in the mist of despair

and lead the broken reeds of men

who rise each dawn from corporate beds

bent by using and the using up,

stretch our limbs like spans of rope

to bridge the miles of difference

between those who have no vision

and those who see too much.

We can be mountains that echo

drumlins and eskers leveled by glaciers

so Guernseys can be captured by clover,

we can be psalmists for prairie dogs,

the black bear, goose, and the badger,

berries and waxworks on wires of unworked acres,

we can be a winter night when a billion stars

cannot heat the coldest dollar

but inflame the weakest heart.

We can speak mountains of words,

not words as solid as rock,

but words which lift the spirit

like a mountain takes up vision

from the desert floor,

words that raise like farmers

erecting barns born like a phoenix

from the ashes of the old,

words that grow, root and germ, impregnations.

We can speak ponds of green understanding,

speak easy as sepals and pistils to the bee,

pliant as pine to the carpenter’s plane,

as full of beauty as a field of wheat in the wind.

 

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