Or someone’s word for it
Was the name of my early place.
A dirt-blown, wind swept
Kind of a town
It’s name really should have been
BROWN.
Seasons of sand, snow, and wind
Shrilled through starry nights alone,
Defied by a few rare elms
Growing green in front of
Yesterday’s homes.
I remember
Bits of straw,
Sun-dried grass,
And tumbleweeds racing
Always chased by the wind.
Out from the town on those endless plains
The blowing wheat bent down too
While that great sky provided all there was
And all we ever knew.
© Gay Reiser Cannon. All Rights Reserved
This poem was published in 2006 in Bright Star Magazine
