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.