A spreading sky, gray-lavender,
dry and uneven, formed a canopy
of thick silence like a storm without wind.
Circles of air, twisted vapor ghosts without form
rise from prairie sand backyards where weeds
fail to grow and old cars find a home.
Curtains lip out of open windows, hoping
to escape while a windmill spins, wishing to fly.
The yard is strewn with a long past. There was
promise sewn into each morning but dust and
winds lifted it out of reach. There were many
chances to become, until change outgrew the land.
Roger Singer 