September Morning in Nebraska

Nebraska is my mother’s birthplace, a state of wide skies and endless fields. My own visits there remain vivid—especially September mornings when the air carried both warmth and a slight chill, as if the land itself was pausing between seasons.

When I came across this poem by C. M. Barrow, I felt as if someone had captured those memories in verse.

A September Morning in Nebraska

by C. M. Barrow

The sun has not yet risen, but his golden glow,
Lights up the misty portals of the far off east;
The wavering shadows o’er the prairies come and go,
And all the eerie sounds of night have ceased.

Nature’s own songsters, from the cotton trees,
Fill all the languorous air with melody.
The corn fields rustle in the gentle morning breeze,
And from the coming dawn the night-mist flees.

For me, this poem is more than a description of a landscape. It is a return to memory. Nebraska mornings, my mother’s voice recalling her childhood, my own fleeting visits where September shimmered with both promise and farewell.

My grandparents were farmers, and their home stood on a ridge overlooking a valley that seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon. I remember the smell of grass in the early morning and the sound of birds settling into the dusk when we walked at night. Standing on that ridge, I felt both small and infinite—at one with nature, part of a world that was larger than myself, yet deeply familiar.

September mornings remind me of the rhythm of change, of how beauty resides in transience. The prairie teaches me to pause, to notice the shimmer of dew before it evaporates, to welcome both warmth and chill, knowing each has its season.

Until the next page turns…

Rebecca

Postscript: I searched for more information about C. M. Barrow, the poet of A September Morning in Nebraska, but very little can be found. His name doesn’t appear in standard poetry anthologies or library archives, which suggests he may have been a local or regional writer whose work was shared in newspapers or community collections rather than in widely published books.

Perhaps this is part of the beauty of poetry—it can live quietly, carried forward by a single poem that speaks across time, even if the poet remains in the shadows.

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