The Flatlander

[a poem inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, Mountains]


The Flatlander

Someone told me the midwest made her feel
as though she were on a map,
with its towns laid out
on grids aligned with the compass points.

I grew up on that great flatness,
giving directions by north and west
and knowing that the weather 3 states west
would be ours in 24 to 36 hours
with nothing in between to slow it down
or stop it.

Where you could see for miles
on a clear day from the top of a tractor.
Where you could see forever
from the top of a big city building.

Where farms were measured in
hundreds of acres,
and where you could interchange
the minutes and miles to things
because 60-mile-an-hour driving
wasn't slowed by traffic or curvy roads.

So when I look up at a mountain
it is not with an off-hand,
taken-for-granted glance.
This flatlander looks up with delight.