Dust Bowl Poem by John F. McCullagh
Dust Bowl
The crops are drooping in my fields.
No rain again today.
My precious topsoil, dry as dust,
threatens to blow away.
It makes a farmer feel like Job
to be afflicted in this way.
No rain dance I can do will help.
I lack the words to pray.
We're victims of a climate change
which makes the land too dry.
Nor is hope on the horizon
from the high blue, empty, sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 2:11:05 PM # 1.0.0.1119
