Dust to Dust

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You would never know that as a child my father Would search the plains for his parents Seeing nothing but billowing dust that buried Poor farm kids in a little Kansas town called Hays   You would only know if you were his child That he nev...

You would never know that as a child my father

Would search the plains for his parents

Seeing nothing but billowing dust that buried

Poor farm kids in a little Kansas town called Hays

 

You would only know if you were his child

That he never sat before a man of cloth--

Robed men who cast ash-to-ash and false praise of

The dead they never once traded words with…

 

You may not know his father called him Hymie

But only in close quarters surrounded by smoke

That turned their fingers yellow while they shaved

Long boards of walnut with the tools of a wheelwright

 

You could not have known of the golden promises

Their father’s father believed and then gave up on  

When growing winter wheat was something

The preacher called an answer to their prayers

 

You may now know that my father cried once

When his father died and once years before

When they found the body of a green-eyed boy

Buried in the dust of a little Kansas town called Hays

 

Rex D Stock November 2015

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