Like a prairie schooner,
A canvas-walled house
That ripples in the breeze
While weathered wood creaks,
And we sway on the deck,
Singing softly,
Our backs to a flatland sea.

It was here the children danced–
Brother and sister and cousins.
A waltz and a frolic
With one who is their aunt, almost and true.
Our ginger boy,
One tow-headed grin,
A dark-eyed adventurer,
And the girl with soft tawny hair and thoughtful eyes.
A blink ago, they were babies held in arms.
Now they have found their feet
For walking, climbing, dancing.
Twirling happy, dizzy circles with a barefoot bride-to-be.

In four days she’ll wear a white dress and dance again,
And the little ones’ uncle will bring her home
To this house he’s built and the house he’s building,
Under the prairie sky.

We work into the evening, making shelves,
Putting things in their place,
Tired and bleary-eyed.
The phone rings.
Somewhere across the miles and borders
And a warm sea, an old man has died.

Spent his days on the land,
On the farm, raising cows for milk.
Didn’t tell a soul when he fell off that horse.
But everything was not all right,
And they soon enough knew.
Two trips to the hospital.
Prayers for the surgery,
For his head.
Last thing I knew, he was doing better,
Back at home.

Hardly knew him.
Hardly remember meeting him those fifteen years ago.
A different language and a Gulf between.
And now he’s gone.

Four days and a white dress,
While my Abuelita mourns.