The old elm suckled from this seep before
cattle drank from the Neosho, when
bison angled trails from water to water
and Kansa were people of the land.
It wrestled Southwind,
carried its omnipresent weight,
bowed in submission yet took strength
from it. Standing alone in the tall grass
like a tilted vase, it reaches
for those who belonged, points
at those who lost faith and inquires
of those who pass by.
— H.C. Palmer
HC Palmer is a physician who was born in Southeast Kansas and spent much of his time growing up in the Flint Hills which is his “anchor” place although he considers the Madison Valley in Montana and the Florida Keys as important places too. He lives in Lenexa where he writes poems in his old age.
One thought on “104. Flint Hills Patriarch”
I just love poems about old trees, especially when they give me a history lesson in the process. Well done!