Judy Little
Homes tent on prairies, grown wheat brims all horizon
wide as light. Wind seeding the sunshine, all homes turn homeless, friends track the wind west, become stories of
themselves, mostly beginnings forever, the liveliest
never at home in old words or new, overturning
all edges, and claiming they never met a good
storys end, God himself new, tenting among us
in sunshine and desert, a nomad, a foreigner.