Dust Bowl Days

The children left,
the chalk circle blowing away
with the dusty wind-
the dry streets evaporating into
dust devils. 

I was blown, a little ways off,
stopped by an embankment
of dirt. The last of the spring weeds
dried and entangled.
A mash of red earth and mud
made from a splash of well-water.
The soft pink palms 
rounded me out,
left to dry on the fencepost. 

Now I was lost,
and the sand of 1934
blew over me,
buried a few inches down,
nestled into sleep until
the woman discovered
in her childrens' sandbox,
as she hung out the wash.

The little red marble,
so old and crackled,
still stuck in the sand,
decades later.