I am often struck by how a wagon wheel, lying
aslant against a barn wall, calls to mind the hack and hew of wood, the smithy's
forge, the oxen and horses, and the days on end of loneliness, our forebears
crossing prairie, incarnating with their eyes vast sky dropping upon them like
the sea of heaven, its wrath and magnificence both unbearable and inspiring.
- Forrest Robinson
JUST OFF THE ST. FRANCIS BLACKTOP
MCDONOUGH COUNTY, ILLINOIS
FEBRUARY 2, 1996
SUNDOWN
by Forrest Robinson
Eleven degrees below and clear blue sky
guaranteed groundhog shadows all across
prairie far as you can squint; your breath
explosive clouds suffering almost long
as souls could hope before silos, windmills,
spires pierced heaven out there among the creak
of wagons, clanking pans and pots, the steamy backs
of oxen, horses. Day like this, what mustard seed
of hope glowed like a coal within the dark
behind their eyes, the weight of so much blank
blue falling--crushed grass frozen rut lines
inviting backward glances of despair?
Out here,
the heater roars above my truck, idle on
this country road; and I, chores done, slide back
and take it all in as though for the first time--
three miles off, the chimney smoke, the lights
of our house sparkling stars clustered in thorns.
WESTERN ILLINOIS COUNTRY
by Forrest Robinson
This is the land of the dropping sky
where stars sparkle flat out east and west,
north and south, where you ride at night
on top of the world; and dawn sets fire
to waterbeads along roadsides, cornstalks
spider-webby and silver in the fields, running
forever. No one growing up in hills can know
the origin of thunderclouds, the slow demise
of days in blinding, pink haze or clear azure,
fielding that single star we realize is meant
for us--fresh hope rising like a church spire,
watchful as a windmill waiting for wind.
This land, flat and haunted by wagon wheels,
washes into the soul like an inland sea,
its tide singing in the summer night air,
calling us on our passage home.