Or someone’s word for it
Was the name of my early place.
A dirt-blown, wind swept
Kind of a town
It’s name really should have been
Seasons of sand, snow, and wind
Shrilled through starry nights alone,
Defied by a few rare elms
Growing green in front of
Bits of straw,
And tumbleweeds racing
Always chased by the wind.
Out from the town on those endless plains
The blowing wheat bent down too
While that great sky provided all there was
And all we ever knew.
by Gay Reiser Cannon.