Farther west a town once glistened in the night lit by oil lamps
in every window. Now on its ghostly site, a farmer plows at dusk
against the swirling dust, deep furrows fighting back against the wind.
His plow hits metal, and filled with dreams of buried gold,
he jumps from the tractor clawing with his hands to free a box
jutting out of wounded earth. A beautiful little girl, golden curls,
sky blue pinafore, disintegrates to dust before his eyes.
What other broken father knelt here before him, bearing the
burden of his resolve to follow the stars to the very edge of flat earth
to a windswept square mile “town planters” named Golden.
—Elizabeth Black
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 