“this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees & for the blue dreams of sky & for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.” ~ E.E. Cummings
One supposes something should be said
about these rows of earthen posts–
stones only in composition, stretching sandstone-yellow red
as far as wire strands will lead them, hosts
along some prairie pasture, or down deserted tractor lanes,
hunkered up against the snow and wind, lost
out in fields of swishing grain,
not rock or post to the untrained eye,
rather an innuendo of both; the plain
truth is how alone the sky
can set them off the best.
After a rain perhaps, their rich brown dye
infests the air around them as if to test
the theories of application. Whoever thought
that quarried limestone could bless
this flattened landscape, then wrought
stones from the earth and fought them–
each a squarish, irregular gem–into place . . .
his mark the winds have not erased.
Jeff Boyer
Jeff and I met last summer while I was doing a show here in Kansas City, and we had a great conversation about art, literature and the Kansas Flint Hills. Thank you Jeff for sharing your work with us – it is beautiful.
Have you seen post rocks? Are they used anywhere besides Kansas?

We cousins would climb onto a copious seat
worn slick by rain and sun,
the trousers of men both thick and spare.
We made a kind of game: Each setting of the giant tines
could chart your life. High for smooth,
hardship low, and tragic on the ground.
An overbuilt machine, no amount of hay
could need that bulk. The elms
would whisper secrets in the yard.
Lilacs by the road pushed against the drive
and hid approaching cars from view.
The tires hissed on tar as they sped by.
Only three or four, I knew enough to open wide the door
before ascending to the beds above
to let the breezy nighttime secrets through.
In the side lot under moon and stars
the rake would arc the metal tines like years
and shape the wind in rows.
Jeff Boyer (collector)
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Thanks Jeff for sharing your poem with us!
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© 2020 Chris Dahlquist