President Roosevelt tells us to
plant trees. Trees will
break the wind. He says,
trees
will end the drought,
the animals can take shelter there,
children can take shelter.
Trees have roots, he says.
They hold on to the land.
That’s good advice, but
I’m not sure he understands the problem.
Trees have never been at home here.
They’re just not meant to be here.
Maybe none of us are meant to be here,
only the prairie grass
and the hawks.
My father will stay, no matter what,
he’s stubborn as sod.
He and the land have a hold on each other.
But what about me?
August 1934