Only greed makes me want
more than this: gold-leafed maples,
soybean nuggets, and rich fields
in my Midwest. Yet
I crave New Mexican acreage,
Sierra aspens, Dakota’s grain.
Or roofs with Bangkok lilt
and Petersburg domes, places
a woman poor in spirit
will never go. Tonight
a harvest moon rides
the side of this blue wagon.
I am frantic east and west
desperate to mine the sun.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
