South Dakota Summer

This one came from a poetry workshop led by the poet laureate of Oregon, Lassen Inada. When I read this to the participants, he said, "Wow! Fantastic!"

The buttery white sand is totally smooth,

so soft it almost surprises

when it sticks to my summer brown skin,

tiny blonde hairs

sheltering tiny blonde grains.

The edge of the sandbox is tractor tire

black, and so hot, it leaves a red stain

under the dirty smudges that smear my legs.

In the sand, a green toy tractor

lies on its side, rust streaking the raised

metal warps of the tall back wheels,

the all-blue driver asleep at the wheel.

On the highway side of the house,

the fields, yellow and frothy with wheat,

stretch to a hazy horizon,

a breeze bustles through, musses, moves on,

and returns hissing.

In the deep shade of the boxelder windbreak,

a wide green John Deere lurks, ticking,

waiting the end of the noon hour,

and the overalled man to climb on again.