Nebraska, My Home
Gazes fall to the east.
To the west,
To the north,
To the south,
Gazes fall.
Velvety fields wave with the rhythm of the wind
And
Leaves swept up murmur sweet nothings
And sway
Side to side with the warm autumn breeze
Across rural Nebraska.
Everything stands still
As the ticking of time ceases to exist;
I call this barren place of wonder home:
Stillness,
Small town Nebraska stillness;
A town with a personality of four hundred
All combined into one,
Quiet from the perspective of passersby,
Crazy beneath the surface – through and through.
The windmills staggered upon this very land represent,
Represent the test of time endured by the inhabitants of this great state.
Their wooden blades have become splintered and rugged,
Worn by the elements of Nebraska weather.
Land cracked,
Left thirsty,
Smolders,
As the heated ground boils with no water.
Clouds depicting rain fool us
As they dance slyly across the sky,
Not a drop of liquid relief in sight.
Trees twinkle,

Suited in ice by the sculptress of nature herself,

Magic to the eyes.
Powdery white flakes are sprinkled across
And
Lie ever so neatly over the still Nebraska land.
Birds sing their sweet aubade as the golden grain sashays to and fro.
Winding roads stem across the horizon,
Fading into the faint glow of the sunset.
I call this place,
This place of brilliant color,
Of exceptional beauty,
Of one-of-a-kind personality,
Nebraska,
My home.