Here

Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of earth-born corn is here. All over creation the sky is wide open and the green and yellow stalks are swaying right here. Here the wind-songs are rough and ready, yet they are as holy as any prayer. Over there a stand of trees where the olive frocks of summer sway and shimmy. The mud and dirt here is as good as any, all just as rich as anywhere else and the grubbing creatures in and upon it are our wealth These fetched-up farm fields are sure-enough an atlas, the roots of heaven rise below us, time delves and sprouts here, the sky descends to till the soil. This is the land beyond the great river, the sun nests here, and the stars appear reflected in up-turned eyes. We are the unrolled map, we are rural Ohio, come walk over the world here, rest on a wayside bench, linger long or stay - right here.