Garrison Gudendas
Idaho Heaven

dirt fields, perfectly peaked and valleyed, run deep
into the dimly blue horizon of your land.

blue-jeaned knee-caps rumble against the steering wheel
of a rusted trailer, reliably red with golden godspeed.
your tall legs bounce slightly with the beat of those dark
wide tires as they roll and dig into that familiar soil,
dusty and dry.

fromt he cock crows of early hours, when the air
is fresh and blades of grass hang low with beads of dew
until those hours of orange sky, sore feet and dirty fingernails
heaven's a daylong job for you, Grandpa.

a pitcher of chilled lemonade waits patiently on the porch steps
for your dry throat and thirsty lips. cold with clinking ice cubes,
heavily sweet with an extra cup of sugar, and a little bitter
with wheels of bright lemons swirling slowly beneath,
you take long drinks and celebrate another day of bliss.

there's no time clock, no 9 to 5, in your heaven. the sun,
pulled across that big sky, rises and falls to your work day.
the dampness of the earth guides your path
in your home land, that great land, that eternal resting place,
Idaho Heaven.

<< Back to Issue 6, 2004