Is it the longing for the majestic sunset
for the man that can no longer see?
Or is it the ignorance of the colors
for the woman who has never seen?
Is it the ache for the one now left
with only recollection of years
of mother's embrace?
Or is it the emptiness for the orphan
who cannot recall her face?
Is it the loss of the mighty tree
burning as it falls?
Or is it the lack of the tree
that never stood at all?

North Texas is a land of storms and in 1970 so was our living room,
and when you're 6 years old you can’t just pick up and leave town.
Your stuck like a fence post in the middle of tornado alley.
The rain is going to come down hard.
The winds may knock you down, cause your heart is a trailer park.
That is just the way it is!
So, you learn to pray and sometimes look the other way,
like the eastern window of an old house.
Then no matter how you try part of it follows you
down the road are pieces of your past.
Like remnants of a tornado’s destruction and you find yourself sitting
back in that same old place even if it is just for a little while.
I look back and I see that 6-year-old sometimes and find she is not that far away.
Just another rain storm away from remembering
what not to say.