with the past may not be clarity.
The Great Plains, the Prairie, appears to be
a sea of endless nothingness,
After 20 miles of plains, a tree
becomes a green miracle. Look!
A tree! A tree in the emptiness.
Then, instead of seeing the flicker of red
like new-minted fire in the witchgrass,
or the trailing robe of the wind
crossing the road just ahead of you,
a low, yellow brown mist of dust,
we strain to see another tree,
the memory of Tree clouding our vision.
The memory creating a need in the now.
And the now:
the wind, the witch grass,
the never looking up to see the hawk
— Nancy Hubble
Nancy Hubble has been a teacher at KU as well as various alternative and public elementary schools. She has had poetry published in the Journal World, a variety of small zines and a publication by Imagination and Place, The Wakarusa Wetlands in Word & Image. Her work includes a CD and chapbook: Dharma Dog.