Any doubt and I walk from this flat land to stand
under the oldest cottonwood tree, high on the hill, to
feel spit dry upon one finger held skyward.
Which direction will my ashes carry once my remains no longer matter?
Will they shift and swarm like locust weathered during the depression?
Or, if the season is ripe, will they wash through dry creek beds like
the ones survived in the 50s?
Perhaps ashes sift, fine as silt, upon prairie loess and flowering meadows
where bee and bird alike carry them in all directions.
Or, maybe one blustery day, ashes mix with flakes so large they cover
black earth within seconds, layering upon frozen ground.
Time no longer a factor.
Fear no longer a presence.
Wherever wind takes me, I remain in Kansas.
~ Ronda Miller
Ronda Miller enjoys wandering the high plateau of NW Kansas where the Arikaree Breaks whisper late into the sunset and scream into blizzards and t-storms. She lives in Lawrence nearby a son and daughter, is Poetry Contest Manager for Kansas Authors Club, is a Life Coach who loves reading/writing.