IN THE PRAIRIE
In the prairie, there are small fenced cemeteries, family plots. The flat expanse of land opens to the eye; hand carved monuments stand in testimony to love and service. In these places grow the wild flowers… bluebells, paintbrush, lupines, and all manner of reedy grasses… these places cordoned off from mechanization and Agra-business. Held in trust are the bones of loved ones and the soul of nature. Deep inside me is a place like this. The place I have buried my young---the little ones who died of shame, neglect, and hurt. And I must return, not to exhume the dead, but to pay tribute. To return with honor and love, harvest the daisies and buttercups, grow them in the garden of my heart. I can tend the flowers that spring from destruction. I can mingle them with the growth of my sober life, restore my prairie to a splendor it has never known. I can enjoy the bounty of saving the seeds worth saving, and planting my Higher Power’s will for me.
Make a list of decoys.