DUSTBOWL

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.


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