In light of the recent tornadic disaster in Joplin, I found this poem to be quite timely. My aunt lived in an area of Texas that certainly saw its share of tornadoes.
by Veneta Donaldson
There are no children playing in the streets
No sound of footsteps anywhere at all;
The silence mounts until it fairly beats
A mournful dirge about each splintered wall.
But as I watch, long and steadily,
Blurred faces seem to gather all around.
And then a mighty chorus shouts to me –
Never will we leave Tornado Town.
The next poem in this series can be found here: An Aquarelle.
A brief bio of Veneta Donaldson and the first poem of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.