Untitled Poetry

Untitled

The wind howls in from the south southwest,

    blowing dust and banging shutters.

Bouncing over the low sparse brush,

    tumbleweeds scurry by,

Hurrying to make it to the river by dusk.

Untitled

The raging wind batters

With the fury of Mongol forces
Sweeping across the desert

The clumps of tall, stiff grasses

Unable to run before the enemy

Bend deeply
Groveling like peasants
Refusing to break

Willing themselves to survive until

The soldiers have marched through

And their tall, quiet serenity will be returned