This prairie dirt is rich with bones and stories, bodies that fed the wild morning glories.
Step outside your box on frozen evenings, hear the spirit whispers carried on the wind.
Those who came before us, those lost voices chorus cries of pride and grief and joy.
Before the desolate windswept farms, the empty little towns
Before the smallpox took its toll, and the wagons rolled over the ground
There were those who walked so lightly, taking only what they needed.
People of the south wind, brown and red like Kansas earth
They danced the circle of the year, accepting life and death and birth.
They fell as we will fall, the Mother took them in.
This prairie soil is rich with blood and stories, no beginning and no end.
— Dixie Lubin