The View
The View
You can see the prairie
from the empty square
that once was a window
Its beauty is a painting
done in a master-artist's hand
Waves of grass twist round
each other when the wind
is too restless to pick a direction
From the rotted timber
that once was a front porch
you can hear the eerie call
of vast emptiness
The silo, folded in upon itself
in an April tornado
Most of the walls pepper
the land that once was
someone's vivid dream
Wind plays its piccolo
up and down the random
prairie dog holes
The house sways in tune
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