Where my America sleeps

Mountains are majestic.
Oceans are overwhelmingly inspiring.
Snow-capped peaks fill me with awe,
and forests of evergreens ring out in exquisite naturalness,
but real elegance, true inspiration
lies in the rolling rows of corn
planted so expertly by farmers
with sun-spotted hands,
the most authentic sustenance comes from midwestern
plows sowing soybeans, and small-town kids tearing off tassels for
five bucks an hour in a smoldering summer heat.
This is home to me.
This place, so thankfully distant from crowded city streets,
this place, so close to the hearts of my brothers and sister,
where we played softball, and built tree houses,
and found first loves on middle school swing sets.
This place where my mother made military-sized pots of
macaroni and cheese and insisted we eat our vegetables
before heading back out to further stain our hand-me-down jeans.
So many memories here,
sometimes they’re so thick and tangible
I am able to relive them as I walk
down main street.
Trips to the corner shop for strawberry jelly beans,
bike races won for dollar slushies,
kissing boys on rusting monkey bars
and etching eternal initials into wet concrete.

This is where my America sleeps,
where my dreams were planted,
where my soul rests its head.