L'aura del Campo

April 22: a poem in the form of a letter [46]

Or maybe a letter in poetic form? I dunno. I just felt a need to write this.

A letter to ... from an icy place

This river doesn't flow into the Mississippi.
The people here are barely friendly.
I owe you an apology.

The anger wells up within me, overflows
and those downriver brave the flood
or get washed away.

Once, there was a lake here plugged by ice.
When the dam broke it took all the dirt with it,
scraped the scablands bare.

Montana's loss became Oregon's gains.
Washington still feels the pain.
The Palouse turns green in between.

Not everything is zero-sum, or black and white
or even I'm wrong, You're right.
I'd prefer win-win.

But an apology may not be enough to cross this gulf.
My angry sails catch sulfuric breezes.
No one needs more acid in their life.

I may have to wait until I figure this out
by looking within. I'll give you a shout
once I know.

No, the folks who live along the lungs of America:
the Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Ohio,
they know.

All kindness flows with the mud and sand and silt
(but not my anger, shame and guilt)
into the bosom of Mississippi.

KE [177.46] (22.april.2020)