Green Oceans

I was raised in a small town in a valley between these hills.

And this is the ending triplet stanza for a sestina I wrote about going home for a visit.

Wind parts the grasses, revealing the lines of crumbling foundations.
A dust devil swirls and ripples the wheat, like the stir of inventions
  still turning and flashing, the green fields of my mind..

 

 When I went back this June, I  almost unnerved by the silence and the empty sweep of clouds and wind over the land. I belong in the Palouse, I was born and raised there, but at the same time...never at home in this vastness and quiet.

I want a simple life...to be able to walk in safety to the grocery and the library and to have enough land to root around in.  But not this simple. I like having real water ocean nearby, not an ocean of grain.