Prairie Wind
A blown face looks from a sod-wall window
Or the door of a tar-paper shack and considers
The wind and the clouds.
Some days the clouds take individual shapes
To match her imaginings.
She counts them as they hover
In the endless, miserable blue.
Horizon is everywhere.
Winds untangle the grasses and they bend
The pile of their thick carpets as if mocking
Her earth-dust floor.
The feverish wind has found her emptiness:
It blows through the holes of her home,
Lifting a corner of black dress.
Page(s) 32
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