It’s a dust bowl she said

But, I see ghost hands working the soil, loyal and unwilling to leave the land

The I love yous and I’m sorrys that have been whispered for over a 100 years, echoing in the rustling wheat, reminding you to forgive

I see a fear of drowning in silos and its hourglass of grain

Each tear and drop of sweat fertilizing the land

I see something rare and hauntingly beautiful

A history of home