Our Acres on the Mesa
by Paulette Demers Turco

The mesa stretching to the Rio Grande
has borne our wheat crop harvested with sickles
as the aspens shed their canopy,
not long before this first light dust of snow.

A low cloud cover portends more wet days
ahead. The white oak by the gate, no doubt
betrays its trials battling years of drought.
I check the mailbox daily, pondering ways

to cunningly convince you, let you know
the wheat fields’ rustling whispers speak to me.
Our Rio Grande grain–so high it tickles
our chins–will pay our bills and crew. Our land

is lush now. Droughts are past. Our mailbox waits.
The mesa calls. Let’s end our old debates.



 

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