New to the state 
Driving out and about
Down the Interstate and north to Manhattan
The view of Emerald (yes Emerald) Green
Washes up like a cascading wave from the West
And the valley draws one into it
As if it were a mystic mystery filled with mist
Enjoining you to come
To see and believe that Kansas is not flat.

Flat as a pancake we are told
But hotcakes and flapjacks
And griddle cakes are not always flat
Covered with bubbly pits and holes 
And crevices filled with goodness
The sweetness of summer molasses
We find in Kansas.

The Jade sea of the Flint Hills
Is the last of the vast plains
The very last of the extant tall grass prairies
A Viridescent vista incomprehensible
To travelers and farmers and ranchers
First crossing them in trepidation of the distances
Then staying and settling
They tried and failed to till
The stony depths
Into farmlands and gardens.

Only in the riparian 
Banks to the streams interspersed and intersecting 
With the land of stones 
Would one see the ubiquitous wheat
And corn
And milo
There and only there because the hills
Were reserved by their very nature 
For cattle and grass loving creatures and
The people that raised and hunted them
As small and insignificant specks
Upon the land.

Noting the stone posts used for fencing
From the lack of trees
Only the grass was abundant
And fecund
Enough that most of the hills are owned
By those from out of state now
What a shame and a pity
But stewardship brings fires
And burning and blackness
That turns to Green.

Never forgetting the upwelling sense
One felt 
Upon first gazing into and across the hills
One knows
We were blessed and one knows we are freed
By the earth and the sky
The billowing thunderheads bring
Once more the rains and
The living verdant Green.