The Parting of the Alfalfa
At seven, I wandered from our new house
to the alfalfa field behind us, lay down,
cuddled close to the ground.
I figured everyone in heaven could see
me lie there, parting the green stems
like Moses did the Red Sea.
I even crossed over into another land,
untouched by bees, trying to find the chosen
purple flower of alfalfa.
From the yard, not even my parents
could see me swallowed up
by that great sea of green and purple.
That day clouds took shape, beyond
the white and gray, to barnyard animals
I dreamed of having, once Dad built the corrals.
Instead of concrete, noisy streets,
I had Spring Creek, the woods,
pheasants, ditch banks, crows, and magpies
crying from the Cottonwoods over by the slough,
and gurgling water, crawling down the alfalfa field,
licking up the dry dirt like the Red Sea did
as Pharaoh’s men clamored through.
And I lay there, singing praises,
soaking up the new country
I had just passed over.