Twenty-Six Shades of Brown

South is the way the west wind blows,
loose dirt kicks up joined by Oklahoma hopes.
Thickness, O dark clouds drift over this saddened land,
broken, my heart, as I watch, my sister grasps my hand.
Some call it the "Dust bowl," some say it just begins,
but all remaining hearts fear; thus it will never end.
As I look on, the end, we all reckon' is here,
a pullet runs out, blinded by fear.
I can only watch as the storm spots its prey,
furious winds lash out our last hen is killed today.
My heart grows heavy, broken, but it still breaks for the chick,
My sister looks away, softly crying. A cough nearby, Ma is sick.
As Ma shuffles in, joy losing to dismay,
we acknowledge a weak smile, my sis wipes tears away.
"Mum, when is the storm over, when it be done?"
Ma sadly shakes her head-"God never tells, not to anyone."
So for five more years, the angry skies bore down,
as the west wind went south,
my world was dusted twenty-six shades of brown.

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