even though dust
blows in sometimes.
I walk with Daddy around the farm
and see that
the pond is holding its own,
it will keep Ma’s apple trees alive,
nourish her garden,
help the grass around it grow,
enough to lie in and dream
if I feel like it,
and stand in,
and wait for Mad Dog
when he comes past once a week
on his way from Amarillo,
where he works for the radio.
And as long as the
dust doesn’t crush
the winter wheat,
we’ll have something to show in the spring
for all Daddy’s hard work.
Not a lot, but more than last year.
November 1935