Thank you, Anni. Maybe I'm a masochist because I do like making things difficult for myself. I considered rhyming each line as well, but that was a bridge too far. Perhaps next time...
In 1930 the earth rose against us,
the dirt piled in storm clouds to the skies,
falling in the dry rain of drought,
our homes choked with dust creeping,
and fields beneath the dunes of desperation,
as poverty swallowed all hope.
Out in the Oklahoma panhandle
houses still cower from the wind.
Line count: 8
Free verse
For Express It In Eight, 10.17.22
Prompt: As per illustration.
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