The way I see it, hard times aren't only about money,or drought,or dust.Hard times are about losing spirit,and hope,and what happens when dreams dry up.

I turn my back on him as he goes,and settle myself in the parlor,and touch Ma's piano.My fingers leave sighsin the dust.

I don't know what I am thinking. But I am alone. I am trapped in the net of the room. In the net of humans. I think maybe I am drowning in the net of humans.

When I rode the train west,I went looking for something,but I didn't see anything wonderful.I didn't see anything better than what I already had.Home.

HopeIt started out as snow,oh, big flakesfloating softly, catching on my sweater,lacy on the edges of my sleeves.Snow covered the dust, softened thefences, soothe the parched lipsof the land.And then it changedhalfway between snow and rain,sleet,glazing the earth.Until at lastit slipped into rain, light as mist.It was the kindest kind of rainthat fell.Soft and then a little heavier,helping alongwhat had already falleninto the hard-panearthuntil itrained,steady as a good friendwho walks beside you,not getting in your way,staying with you through a hard time.And because the rain came so patient and slow at first,and built up strength as the earthremembered how to yield,instead of washing off,the water slid in,into the dying groundand softened its stubborn pride,and eased it back toward life.

...the morning with the whole day waiting,full of promise,the nightof quiet, of no expectations, of rest.And the certainty of home, the one I live in,and the onethat lives in me.