Bowling for Blue

Milk bottles rise like bowling pins. In strong stance,
midst blue skies, they align as if kindred,

as though Minnesota tribe. It’s 1964, the air is warm
as Chevy heads east. Bales line where silos define

Arcadian settings. Holstein, Jersey, Brown Swiss
stipple slopes, enliven landscape, find nourishment

in rolling serenity. From backseat window, she cups
the breeze — it caresses her hand, nourishes

her spirit, as her chubby fingers weave back and forth.
Keep bowling for blue, continue to rise like bottles,

remember the countryside, where your essence lifts —
behold fields, flourish of clover, yield to gentle voice

of fertile Earth. After all, you can’t deny nor dislike
what’s shaped you, for there’s abundance in both clouds
and blue sky.