by Carolyn Martin
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, —
… And reverie.
– Emily Dickinson
No prairies wave across this town. Slip on your strolling shoes and roam through churches, parks, and homes renowned as Federal, Greek, Italianate. And, if attuned to Emily, net the transcendental buzz of that pubescent Deity – and watch him mate his three-leaf Love. She never saw great seas of grass or heard their fluting meadowlarks; or felt the whip of big bluestem, the company of prairie hawks. And yet this Alchemist of Life could sit in crowded solitude – distilling worlds more true than true in her capacious dreamery. Catch her at a window seat unpinning violets from her dress. Feel the wilt caress her hands and evanesce across the grass. Watch her raise her sherry eyes saluting stars with rhapsodies to prairie dogs and antelope at home across the mixed-grass seas. And as she burrows down to sleep, she nods to Immortality, planting words across the sheets in consummated reverie.