The Wasteland

I was born on the far end
Of a desolate wasteland
Endless miles of juniper, sagebrush,
Cheatgrass, and dusty Earth,
As far as the eye can see.

More than a century earlier,
Pioneers skipped over
Its rugged landscape
For the fertile soil of the
Damp valley beyond the mountains.

Thousands of years earlier,
Some of the first Americans
Skipped over it as well
For the path that would lead them
To the bountiful lands of the south.

Escapists, adventurers, and many others
Eventually called the wasteland home,
My ancestors among them.
Whatever their reason for coming,
They found one good enough to stay.

Living on the edge of the wasteland,
And in a sense Western society itself,
Is not for everyone.
So I left the wasteland one day,
But it refuses to leave me.

by Cody McCullough

Smith Rocks 2000 001

Photo by Elizabeth McCullough