Wind is swaying the grassy plains.
Brush in one hand,
knife in the other,
I bend knee to the bluestem of my birth.
My hair is shadows
to be gathered and sheared.
My skin is a silken sack,
empty and eggless.
Red dirt stains my feet,
and water witches
through the fine bones of my fingers
until "dig, dig" cramps and clenches
like a rheumatism.
I no longer know my hands.
When I was young,
the well was always running dry,
and I grew up afraid.
Afraid of drought.
Afraid of thirst.
But now that I am old,
I can barely bring myself to sip.
So, wind sway my grassy plains,
and I'll sway, too.
I have a brush in one hand
and a knife in the other.
Tonight, I'll drink from a gourd of stars.
The first three lines were provided by my ten year old daughter. She loved the poem and thought it was really good. She also thought that she could do better!
For Corey's prompt at Real Toads.