An email arrives from BOLD Nebraska.
I no longer live in Nebraska and have never been bold,
but I do like to know when it’s time to plant the sacred Ponca corn,
and if plans to build Keystone XL have finally been buried,
and if Jane Kleeb is a real person because
what would the world be like if every person were
a real person? I want to tell you, there have been moments
of joy—a year ago, I found a to-do list folded
in the pocket of the vintage leather purse I carried
when I lived in Nebraska, a time capsule
from before I carried children, and the joy
was not in finding the list, nor in being able to cross out
any tasks accomplished, but rather in the fact
that those things I had wanted to do
were still things I wanted to do
and that I could, even now, step out this door,
stand in the yard long enough to leave footprints
and admire the lone goose flying south—instinct etching
its every arc—and trace its visage beyond the end
of our dead-end street—wet hands pulling out the knot
around my aproned waist, dishes
left soaking in the sink.