by Diane Siebert

The Midwest. Middle America. These are two other names that people often use for the Middle West. Because it is in the very heart of the country, the Middle West Region has still another name. It is sometimes called the Heartland of America.

I am the Heartland.

Great and wide.

I sing of hope.

I sing of pride.

I am the land where the wheat fields grow

In golden waves that ebb and flow;

Where cornfields stretched across the plains

Lie green between the country lanes.

I am the Heartland,

Shaped and lined

By rivers, great and small, that wind

Past farms, whose barns and silos stand

Like treasures in my fertile hand.

I am the Heartland.

I can feel

Machines of iron, tools of steel,

Creating farmlands, square by square—

A quilt of life I proudly wear:

A patchwork quilt laid gently down

In hues of yellow, green, and brown

As tractors, plows, and planters go

Across my fields and, row by row,

Prepare the earth and plant the seeds

That grow to meet a nation’s needs.

A patchwork quilt whose seams are etched

By miles of wood and wire stretched

Around the barns and pastures where

The smell of livestock fills the air.

These are the farms where hogs are bred,

The farms where chicks are hatched and fed;

The farms where dairy cows are raised,

The farms where cattle herds are grazed;

The farms with horses, farms with sheep—

Upon myself, all these I keep.

I am the Heartland

On this soil

Live those who through the seasons toil;

The farmer, with his spirit strong;

The farmer, working hard and long,

The feed-and-seed-store cap in place,

Pulled down to shield a weathered face—

A face whose every crease and line

Can tell a tale, and help define

A lifetime spent beneath the sun,

A life of work that’s never done.

I am the Heartland.

On these plains

Rise elevators filled with grains.

They mark the towns where people walk

To see their neighbors, just to talk;

Where farms go to get supplies

And sit a spell to analyze

The going price for corn and beans,

The rising cost of new machines;

Where steps are meant for shelling peas,

And kids build houses in the trees.

I am the Heartland.

In my song

Are cities beating, steady strong,

With footsteps from a million feet

And sounds of traffic in the street;

Where giant mills and stockyards sprawl,

And neon-lighted shadows fall

From windowed walls of brick that rise

Toward the clouds, to scrape the skies;

Where highways meet and rails converge;

Where farm and city rhythms merge

To form a vital bond between

The concrete and the fields of green.