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Indiana January

The sky I was born under

hangs grey, suspended like

a crushed velvet curtain

strewn with pale cotton on

an early cold January day.

The corn is cleared from the fields

yellow stalks rotting under

soil that will live again in May,

dusty soybean fodder dissolving

into mud.

The sky I was born under

searches in vain for warmth from the sun

living instead wrapped in grey wool

steeling itself against the winter chill.

Snow falls and remains, pushed aside,

huddling in pools around the bases

of winter trees, bare of leaves,

slumbering in their trunks.

The sky I was born under

always remains, floating silently

around the back corners of

my mind, reminding me of home.


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