Dirty Thirty

Posted: November 22, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Quiet whip-like sounds

drift across the plain landscape

decorated with spare grasses

which would gleam, if the sun were shining,

but now a shadowless amber thundercloud

has descended upon

what small barns and houses

litter the yellow scope of flatland.

The sound that approaches

is arid, vast, and unforgiving.

It will rip the small buildings from their worth,

it will uproot anything that is not tied

with the root of providence.

This desert cloud will surge to remove

what fruits of labor men and women have grown

to provide, and to grow wealth.

This storm separates bills

from hearts, but

nonetheless,

blesses with suffering.

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