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Tuesday, November 3, 2009


She watched the car drive away
kicking dust and gravel back
into her eyes and her skin,
her bare arms no match for limestone gravel.
She winced, but couldn't deflect--
just stood in the road
watching the cloud of dust
following the old, green Buick
grow smaller.
The grumbling sounds of the engine finallly
dissipating into the wind
and drown out by the singing of
little brown birds.

(This poem is in response to a promt from )

1 comment:

  1. Ginger,

    I love the way you portray this powerful human scene as the image of a car spinning out, spraying rock onto the remaining person, who is unable to "deflect" - a great term.

    And it is a great image how the wind and the "singing of little brown birds" obliterate the image (as seen or seeable by others) while we know they have done nothing to obliterate the pain.