We hear the prairie whispering
when meadow lark is on the wing
and pipit echoes a refrain.
Sweet solitude is his domain.
The sigh of breeze through blades of wheat;
a distant farm in summer’s heat -
Still life - but for the shifting vane.
Sweet solitude is its domain.
Midst blazing stars of purple hue,
I murmur while caressing you.
The soft wind, moaning, strokes the plain.
Sweet solitude is our domain.
We hear the prairie whispering. . .
Sweet solitude is my domain.
By Andrea Dietrich
(the form is sonnet kyrielle)
For nette onclaud's contest: