Sunset, Dead of Winter

Sunset on the prairie, dead winter day,
Blue grass briefly Egypt-colored,
High-rise obelisk of a silo in rough-cut shadow.
Aristotle, always metaphorical,
Comes back from the grave to
Rethink things once again on Kill Creek.
It’s hard to think of
Virtues on a day like this,
But the landscape has but one tenet:
Don’t let the grass grow under your feet.

Leadplant, the stuff toy solders
Fought in, cutting the web of their pants,
Each stalk tipped like Hatshepsut’s
Fallen obelisk, I come back to thee now
With a slug of extra weight in the midsection.
Cosmic backdrop, child’s curtain made from
Foil, yours is the poetics of parallel tracks
Heading into the horizon, drawn
In by snow, a glance back, a hush.