Saskatchewan

I walk at dawn across the hills
and wonder why they call them “Hollow hills”
For these hills have no caverns at their base
rich black earth encrusted over clay
they cling close to earth’s ancient rock.

Pine edges the horizon. Voluptuous earth
supports a hundred kinds of seed
now harvest is over
fields lie dormant
waiting for winter.

I walk at dawn across the hills
for only these have been unchanging
through my years &emdash; April
the wide snow pack will melt
deep into the covering, wake
the seed of dandelion, crested
wheat grass and the endless
fibres of bearded barley.

I will seek out the tiny pansy faces
of wood violets, and find
a yellow orchid, lady slipper
a pale anenome will show and a snowdrop
dip fragile and tender above the last
cool pool. Later there will be
sturdier yellows and oranges here
We find the prairie lilies, mustard
and milkweed, blue bells that do not
ring but greet my coming and a hedge
of wild roses.

Centuries
of glacier ground rock and residue
of ten million trees save winter’s bounty
for hot summer days. Rich country,
my country, my country
where there are
no hollow hills.