This is a first draft of my second poem I wrote for my poetry class.
I look into eyes of tall sagebrush on a still day,
green and silver without the polish of recognition.
Cumulus hair on skin cracked like deadwood.
The storm has lived here for months.
Hello I say, but she is buried.
Clogged lungs, dirtied eyes, how can she breathe?
The dunes are so high and so wide,
and the wind only keeps piling.
I have seen the future and it is dust.
Dust blows over everything, drifting until the farmers pack up.
Fields are worthless and the sky is dark with grime.
Get the kids in the car and head west.
Have you heard? There is gold in California!
She says Take me home,
but her home has dried up—
there are no crops that can take root in this soil.
She says If you loved me you would take me home,
but love must obey survival.
I want to tell her You are not from Kansas.