sailing home

from the window
of the plane she can make
out the fields.
the straight lines, the grids
of corn
and wheat, green rows against
the ruffled dirt,
yellowed tractors,
red barns and silos,
silvered thumbs along
the flat plains.
this once dust bowl,
this land
of despair and hope.
all prayers revolving
around rain
and harvest, the farm
homes,
white as cathedrals
with clouds of life
that come and go beneath
their roofs.