1952. He was called Joshua; she Hannah,

friends since childhood, married as teens,

love falling forth like heavenly manna--

born two, merged as one, of simple means.

Joshua spent his savings on a plot of land,

perched on a rise of prairie fields, reaching

as far as far can be imagined, grand,

glorious, glistening, teaching, preaching.

A cabin, we must have a cabin, Hannah trilled,

with gingham curtains and a checked table cloth

a pantry, a braided ragrug, a cradle frilled

with tassels, an oaken cream bucket to catch the froth.

Yes, but horses--two--hens, roosters, a hound

for hunting, a picket fence, a deep well

to quench our thirst. icy, tingly all around.

But what shall we call it? Hannah said.

I recall a blackeyed susan where was alit

a butterfly, resting his wings on a yellow bed--

Swallowtail Homestead, we will call it.

Joshua and Hannah toiled and labored, mending

fences, putting up jars of savory preserves,

tried by harrowing storms, always fending

for themselves, never giving in to rattled nerves.

So, if you find yourself lost as if your heart is about to crack,

and in your old beat-up pickup set out to see what's after the next bend,

look for an old but stately tumble-down shack

and  hear the voices of long ago singing in the sighing wind.