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

 

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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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