Red dust. Each day
she wipes red dust
from the everything she owns.
Her mismatched furniture.
A kettle she cooks with.
The floor of her board and batten
shanty. She sees no one
on twenty acres of creekflat,
watches the earth crack
in summer. And never
calls home. She needs the air here
for her thoughts to reach
the skyline. The room so the chatter
won’t crowd back. Her mother
sends money, some of it she keeps.
She doesn’t need much.
Just the kettle. And the shanty.
And the space for dust to fall,
one speck at a time.
words: Amy MacLennan, Oregon
original publication: Falling / Convergence