If I could rise up
above this frosted deck,
above these frosted roofs,
somewhere near the tops
of these black-branched trees,

then I would see
still higher
the stark frame
of the radio tower
stretching up behind
the small block station
like some Midwestern miniature
of the Eiffel Tower.

Beyond that I would see
hours of rolling prairie pasture,
blackened by the burning of spring.

Just past Grouse Creek,
my soul would stream singing
into the Flint Hills,
gouged by gullies and ditches,
their slight rise stretching
farther north than east.

I’d hover there for a while,
smiling into a distant morning,
its rising into a pale sky
thinning blue into silver
and forming a warming glow
that speaks of good to come,

rising above the ashes
of grass and small cedars
and scorched posts.

Below them,
freshened by recent rains,
hosted by the growing sun,
a surging green will come,
a renewing healing to cover the scars,
and feeding the cattle of a thousand hills.

H. Arnett
4/14/16