CLOUDS
By Frances Harris
Thin quilts of white moisture, like
wads of soft cotton,
Floating between the small streaks
of blue,
A painter’s huge palate takes orange
and purple,To promise us showers, of raindrops, and hail,
Days turn to weeks, and the months
turn to years,
Tired wide eyes look forward to news,Nothing it seems can coax one small drop,
The wind dies away then all hope is lost,
Morning has come and no one can tell
us,
If long wispy streaks will carry the
rain,There’s heat and there’s flies and thirsty cows bellow,
The old man looks up and curses the sky,
The faithful brown horse, twelve
years and a day,
Carried the grain, never making a
sound,Then down on one knee he draws his last breath,
Never again to see lush fields of grass,
There’s nothing but misery with blue
sky above them,
People moved on when their future
was shaky, Most of the town is falling to ruins,
Gardens of roses a thing of the past,
But hush now my child, we’ve all got
each other,
Grandma and Grandpa and Bobby and
Gina,We’ve been on this land two lifetimes or more,
We’re patient and careful and don’t want to move,
The graves out the back are our family before us,
We cannot leave now, is would mean we’re defeated.
