Beneath the Cottonwoods

Beneath the cottonwoods

The old spring sat

Hidden unless you knew


Here in these Great Plains

The old travelers knew

The trees meant water


And this morning

As the sun broke over the horizon

And we broke camp


You and I both searched

The book was right in ’46

Foundations hide behind these cottonwoods


The one safe place

In that small Green Book

For 500 miles along the road


Is just hidden ruins now

Forgotten by all but a few

Just like that old spring


This entry was posted in American Historic Sites, American History, Poetry, Social Justice, The Wandering Yankee, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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