horizon

I have a memory of waking up in the early morning hours

day still shrouded in darkness

heart beating wildly

in response to a frightening image 

from a childhood dream

light shining through my bedroom doorway

from the kitchen

where my mom stood behind an ironing board

preparing for the day 

in that quiet space 

after Dad had gone to work

before the children woke

steam rising

board creaking as the iron moved 

rhythmically back and forth

instantly calmed 

I drifted back to sleep

I explored abandoned houses on the land 

where my mom was born

huge expanse of sky and grass

horizons shaped for wind 

to gather speed 

gather dust or snow

horizons shaped to deceive

hiding river valleys with sand castles

disguising antelope frozen in place

creating a mirage of endless bison herds 

tipis puncturing the skyline 

trees new settlers on the grassland

"That tree wasn't there when I was little" 

my aunt remarked when she saw the pictures. 

"There were no trees."  

she looked at the pictures of a little house

told me about the stairs up to the attic where she and her sister slept

told me where the back door would have been, 

   the back porch where my grandfather would sit in the weeks 

   after the horses had bolted

   breaking his leg 

remembered her mom standing in the kitchen