Ruby Wilson writes of making poems in her kitchen: “with potato water/ honey, yeast and flour.” She stirs, kneads and shares the delicious results with her readers, enough for all, with a few delicious leftovers for breakfast. Follow her; stroll to the rim of the horizon as she thoughtfully explores, in darkness and in light. The moon winks as she savors the treasures of her world and ours: sideoats grama and bluestem, sons with gelled hair, water’s canvas, nighthawks. With her words you learn which way the wind blows. You transcend the pain and fear of heart failure. “Which is the beating heart?” she asks. And answers: “All this stardust,/ solid ground.”

In At the Rim of the Horizon, Ruby R. Wilson pays attention. She zeros in on remnants of the South Dakota prairie—its grasses and transcendent skies—to cull ordinary, beautiful moments for poems. And just when she’s gotten readers comfortable in her kitchen or garden, she catapults us into the Milky Way. In the naming of Regulus, finches, wild mustard, and windmills, Wilson sharpens our gaze. Even the moon will shine more crisply after you close the book.
–Christine Stewart-Nuñez, author of Keeping Them Alive