by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The old men are dreaming bad dreams. The rain will not fall on our land. Even the deep water stays away. I yearn for the earth to give us her blessing, her sanction, so we can harvest the oats and rye again, so I can run to the far field to wrap my arms around the face of my horse and dream good dreams.
fourwindowspress 
A wonderful poem, as always, Ethel…..longing for another time. For normalcy….
Thanks Betty. We send our love. Ethel
That is beautiful Ethel.
Thank you, John. Ethel
Wonderful, Ethel; the last stanza especially. It’s a long time since I did that, but I know exactly how it feels. And yes, I miss it, too.