at home

we are the waifs of the prairie
in our ragged hand-me-downs
our feet red with the clay
that swirls round our ankles
and blows up gritty into our eyes

we watch in fear and fascination
as thunderheads build
like a new mountain in the west
as lightning splits the darkness
and shivers the pine trees yielding
to the torrent
coming, coming

a matronly plump angel
covered neck to knees
by her starched white apron
serves us stew in our tin cups
scoop, pour,
“Bless you, Child,”
she smiles generously on each
upraised and grimy face

we sit side by side,
in the church basement,
satisfied,
knowing why we stay


pb © 2013 


      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *     *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

---