Clear Mountain Streams

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Panes of dirty glass conceal the past
where futures were tied to land and soil.
And pa fingers a hand full of dirt
reflecting on years of pain and toil.

A rusty sun bronzes a foil star
ma hung in the window for good luck.
And a small candle awaits a match
to defend against the dark when struck.

Hunger gnaws at our empty stomachs,
everything we plant is doomed to die.
And yet, ma slips me and pa a smile,
showing us where her loyalties lie.

Looking up to a burnt almond sky,
she searches for clouds other than dust.
And scans for life in neighboring homes
long ago left to decay and rust.

Abandoning a dream lost to time,
ma loses hope and accepts defeat.
And I can see the pain in pa's eyes,
the trickling tears mocking his conceit.

California calls in shades of green,
with lush pastures and clear mountain streams.
And common sense says that we must move
far from this dust bowl of dying dreams.


(Quatrain)


9/23/2017

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