see, there's the mud tracks of the cart moving on
by the scraggly wildflowers; whoever knew their names
held the reins
on the wagon that had seen the last of the sun,
blistering dreams; that quarter melon moon heightening
old schemes, pots and pans, hourglass sandstorms,
dresses that are worn clear through
while we make do
and carry the one on odd pieces of slate.
is it too late the soul sighs on its own
or is that the winds
through prairie grasses I pretend,
suspending all belief.
mary angela douglas 21 july 2016