Spring's Nebraska is no eyelet damsel but a bawd who snaps her garter high inside her kick. At her saloon you drink a wine that's ripe as hung meat with the stink of skunk and cow manure. Her fields are green as con men's emeralds where pheasants strut their bronze tails beside demure church-going hens and eye the sunset and narcissus red for red. Gunslinger-silent snakes thaw out their mosaic coils for rabbits chaste as their lily ears. Into these brazen acres like chamber music in a bawdy house songs of meadowlarks fall from the sky to drop rock crystal prisms through the air. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PECK OF GOLD by ROBERT FROST THE PRODIGAL SON by DAVID IGNATOW VOLUPTAS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON ON A YOUNG LADY'S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: AT FAIRBANKS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NOTHING WILL CURE THE SICK LION BUT TO EAT AN APE' by MARIANNE MOORE |