Iowa pseudo-Pastoral

This place, in Iowa
with soybean rows
and a stoplight -

Amish hats and homemade candies,
baby lambs, brown eggs, buggies
drawn by horses -

- this place,
a new home
for my re-rooting friend.

I brought three lemons
from her childhood backyard.
We squeezed them with an orange

and kicked off muddy boots.
We filled afternoon glasses;
ate bread, and waited.

Matt came home
with parts for the tractor
and a box of matches for controlled burns.

He waved with a small smile.
Boots retied, my friend walked over;
they exchanged pink cheeks.

I watched the long grass,
the orange cat,
the black dog;

I leaned back against the steps,
beside the citrus rinds,
drying out, but smelling sweet.