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For all it’s rolling hills and golden fields

Driving through South Dakota is like first meeting a beautiful woman. Sure, she’s easy on the eyes but it won’t take long before the conversation dries up and you realize that as pretty as she may be, she’s just as pretty stupid.




She is the ink pulsing through her veins,
craving a taste of the pain of humanity,
aching from sorrows never uttered,
scribbling her blood across history.

She is the spring flower piercing through snow
warm sunlight tickling a bare thigh,
blue birds tittering atop budding growth,
an ice cube melting down her clavicle.

She is the stars in night sky laughing,
moonlight glowing against her cheeks,
twilight eyes blinking away lonely years,
dawn just creeping up on a new horizon.