Synaptic

The poem does indeed “linger, like a soft, prairie sigh…” with the echo of Naomi’s title and themes: “I cast away the clutter, make the ditches sublime.” When I emailed the poem to Naomi with the author’s permission, she replied immediately: “‘Steward of the ditches’ – I love it! Thank you, name, GREAT JOB!!!!, and Mary, for sending it to me!”

-Dr. Mary Stark

---

This poem draws inspiration from the works of Naomi Shihab Nye, particularly her collection “Cast Away: Poems for Our Time.” In the spirit of Naomi’s exploration of everyday moments and the profound stories they hold, this poem takes a journey along the road that brings me home, Highway 102 in Pella, Iowa. The narrative unfolds as I become a steward of the ditches, cleaning up the discarded fragments of modern life. The poem seeks to echo Naomi’s ability to find beauty and meaning in the ordinary, turning the act of cleaning into a poetic reflection on human connection and responsibility. As we weave through the ditches, we discover not just debris but tales waiting to be heard—a testament to the resilience of nature and the human spirit.

 

In the heartland’s embrace, where fields stretch wide,
Along Highway 102, where the winds confide,
There, amidst the whispers of the prairie breeze,
A tale unfolds, spun in the threads of ditches, if you please.

In Pella’s haven, where tulips bloom so fair,
I find myself, a steward with a mindful care,
A custodian of ditches, where stories unfold,
Each piece of litter, a narrative yet untold.

Beneath the vast Midwestern sky, I stride,
Gloves on hands, and a sense of pride,
Through dappled sunlight and the rustle of corn,
I embark on a journey, a cleaner’s morn.

The highway’s edge, a canvas of neglect,
Discarded fragments, a disrespectful sect,
Yet in my hands, a promise to redeem,
To turn the ditches into nature’s dream.

With a bag in hand and determination true,
I stoop to gather what others eschew,
Bits of plastic, whispers of a transient past,
I weave a tale that will forever last.

In the rhythm of the highway’s gentle hum,
I see the remnants of where others succumb,
To the rush, the haste, the fleeting drive,
But in these ditches, I find what survives.

A rusty can, a crumpled note,
Each discarded item, a tale to promote,
For in the refuse of the hurried mind,
A chance for redemption, for solace to find.

Pella’s tulips nod in silent praise,
As I tread the ditches in these quiet days,
Each piece of debris, a story to share,
A reflection of humanity, in a world laid bare.

The winds of change blow through the reeds,
As I cleanse the ditches of our thoughtless deeds,
In Pella’s embrace, where the heartland sings,
A cleaner’s ode, to the simple, profound things.

So, let this poem linger, like a soft, prairie sigh,
Of a soul on a mission, beneath the open sky,
In the spirit of Naomi Nye’s poetic rhyme,
I cast away the clutter, make the ditches sublime.