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The Exile Remembers by K. Joslyn Rockeman April 11, 2007 Sometimes when I lock the place, Throw the deadbolt, slide the chain, I think of how Dakota doors Stayed open through the summer nights And just the screendoor stood its guard Against mosquitos and the world. No locks to turn, no nightclub noise, No siren, horn or car alarm, And all of us slept easy to The sound of wind or rain alone. Some days weaving through these streets I honk and shout and sweat and swear And think of how Dakota roads Rolled unassuming through the grass From house to house and town to town, Fence-line straight and gravel-plain, With time and shoulders big enough To let us check the crops or cows And scan the corners of the sky Or wave as neighbors came and went. Somehow, brilliant blossoms gathered Year-round in this Southern warmth Just make me think of subtler hues— The varied colors of the clouds And all the stories they can tell, The greys and browns and muted blues The winter days came wrapped up in, The amber sheen of ripened wheat, Gold of August's first-turned leaf, And every shade of God's own green. And every night, above the noise I swear I hear a meadowlark And dream I smell the rain approach On phantom wings of prairie wind. About the author: I grew up on the prairie, moved away, and have since returned. In my case, "away" included 23 years spent in various enormous cities on 3 different continents. I wrote "The Exile Remembers" one frustrating, homesick day in Guatemala City (population: 4 million). Now that my backyard is once again fenced with barbed wire and cedar posts, I'm sleeping better than I have in years. | | | |
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