The Wind Blew Cold

The wind blew cold
that terrible day.
The land was pale
and dry.
The earth was melting.
The prairie
waving,
like a ghost town,
in the wind.
Muffled voices
echo inside the
ears
of passersby.
A lonely place
no one ever sees,
so no one hears,
but me.
The wagon broke.
She couldn't move.
He had to lay
her down.
And in the wind
and bright spring
cold,
he held her
in his arms.
"Our one last chance,"
he cried to her,
the stillness
of her limbs.
"My God, come back,
woman..."
he whispered
aloud,
and rocked
his love and cried.
He left her there
in a tidy grave
it took all day
to dig.
A scrap of paper
and charcoal he
pinned
above her with a stone.
"My love died here
upon this land,
on this uncharted
road. Beloved Wife,
young beautiful
bride.
One month married
yet."
He fixed the wagon,
travelled on
toward Hell
to leave her there.
The grave grew old.
The stone was stolen.
Some prairie animal
game.
The words blew
away.
Grass grew on
her death place,
so no one
knew she
was.
But in the wind
on bright prairie
days,
you can hear him
still crying
for his love.