That year was wet, with summer storms that blew
Thick moisture on the field behind
Their house. Tumbleweeds
Grew wild, tall and full, richly green
Until September’s scorching breath
Transformed them into skeletons.
That fall, they built a house of tumbleweeds
Piled twelve feet high atop
A lath-and-wire packing box.
Inside, they cut out cardboard walls
And made two rooms where they could crawl,
Dried prickles crumbling down their necks
Whenever they disturbed
The shifting, makeshift roof
That day they played:
A father, mother, daughter, son,
An archetypal family,
Archetypal home beneath
The tumbleweeds, everything
As it should be for them to live
The lives their parents wanted them to have.
That evening when the father came
At twilight from his work, they took
Him out and showed what they had built.
He nodded, vaguely smiled
At the edifice of tumbleweeds
Stacked against the wire fence.
Then, “That’s too dangerous,” he said,
And made them stand across the alley-way.
He flicked a match.
It took one second for the dream to burn.
That was all
A contest entry
- Tumbleweeds by Danna Hobart.
300 points, ended September 4, 2007, 7 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Memory Lane Again by Judith Chandler.
525 points, ended December 27, 2007, 7 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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This is an appealing write, and quite unusual, with plenty of vivid detail. But again, there isn't enough to place it in any certain time, which is what I wanted. It isn't sufficient to include the date in the title.
I did find the story quite moving. Thank you for submitting it. -
The end was like a punch in the gut. Made me think of how many times I have "burned" my children's dreams
Thank you for entering. -
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Thank you for the contest, the comments, and the trophy. I enjoyed re-visiting the experience from a new perspective.
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"Dried prickles crumbling down their necks
Whenever they disturbed
The shifting, makeshift roof"
Powerful diction and voice here, insight into personal experience is always interesting. Well done.
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As in fantasy, poof, it's gone.
A wonder-creaton you have here, Micol.
Aesthete
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I give it three but will comment in messages michael. nice job as usual.
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I loved the suspence of the poem it made me feel like I was in a fairy tale, I enjoyed reading this. Its great!
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I cannot find a single thing
I would change about this poem...
it was a pure joy to read. Period.
Love, Lane
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