"where will you use that thing
here on the prairie,
where the dust blows sideways,
and our ceiling is
the underside sections of sod we
cut from our field...clods of dirt
that fall into our soup..."
his calloused hand reaches down to
touch the square of white linen she is holding
and when he sees his cracked and blistered
fingers against the delicate fabric,
a tear escapes...
"someday..." he says, wiping his face with
the back of his hand and turning to the fire
as the wind moans outside the windows
made of oiled paper, and snow blows under the
eaves,
"someday..."
No comments:
Post a Comment