Empty Land


The prairie scrolls out after the virgin 

forests have spent their ripe fluid magic

falling to the sea, their ice crowned

visions lofting imagination, 

Passions, discovery, surprise 

At every turn.


Below the last rocky ridges

Belly rolls of hills, plump breasted, 

Matron wrinkly yet fecund still

Catch the late sunlight

 

Where soft, fertile beauty

Lies supine below endless 

Skies bluing the east invisible.


The vast invitation awes, aches,

overwhelms comprehension

Reduces to insignificance

man, asserting imperiously

It is empty.

 © Philip Knight 2018