would say only the words
sun and stone, stream and tree
and earth, yet it would explain
what I know of home
standing in late summer’s
hazy evening light, dust rising
and settling on this road,
under the smell of cottonwoods,
the last of the day’s
sun on this heart-shaped
leaf in my hand.
It would say only
the words fire
and flood, wind
and grass, yet
would capture my surprise
each spring at the turning in
of the compost,
last summer’s onion stalks,
cucumber skins, and grass clippings
now dirt. Stirred
in the wet heat
of last August and broken
by worms and coffin cutters,
they have all become again
that which they were,
the perfect poem.
— William Sheldon
William Sheldon lives with his family in Hutchinson, Kansas where he teaches and writes. His poetry and prose have appeared widely in small press publications, including Columbia, Epoch, Flint Hills Review, Prairie Schooner, and Midwest Quarterly. He is the author of two collections of poetry, Retrieving Old Bones (Woodley) and the chapbook Into Distant Grass (Oil Hill Press).
Bill–This is indeed the perfect poem. The movement of the poem captures perfectly the essense of Kansas. I’m excited that you’ll be reading in Wichita.