PRAIRIE
Emily Griskavich
His eyes glint
as he watches me let the stream
flow through my hands like hair.
The tall grass is yellow-brown
where so long ago it was green with promise.
It has been bleached
like the once-vivid hues
of his children’s laughter.
His eyelashes close
over the wet smooth
gray stones of his eyes.
I know his head and brows
would be as gray as the stones in the stream
if he didn’t color them
back into brightness.
As I catch his eye, his chuckle
is heavy with absence.
He touches my face, his hand gritty
with dirt and flakes of dry leaves.
When he comes to me, his wheat-blond hair
falls near my face as the wind
breathes across the waving grass.
