Poetry About Iowa

Morning opens slowly over fields arranged in long green measures. A gravel road lifts dust behind the school bus and settles again. Corn is one story here, but never the only one. The Mississippi keeps the eastern edge in patient motion. In town, the water tower carries a name visible for miles. Winter wind searches every seam of barn, coat, and conversation.

Corn is one story here, but never the only one. New languages enter old storefronts and widen the supper table. A storm siren turns the whole afternoon toward the basement. Black soil records labor without choosing who receives the credit. County fairs, factory shifts, classrooms, and clinics share the map. Iowa is quieter than a headline and larger than a field.

Morning opens slowly over fields arranged in long green measures. In town, the water tower carries a name visible for miles. Winter wind searches every seam of barn, coat, and conversation. Black soil records labor without choosing who receives the credit. At dusk, grain bins catch the last copper light. Iowa is quieter than a headline and larger than a field.