Another poem undated

I wonder
about the marchers, the travelers
Across the stark black plains.
They drop their burdens
and death dries their hearts...
mountains of refuse,
The bones of culture,
furniture of a people...
fragments of a dream-
a scarlet rag tumbling
in the winds.
They walk the way
of all refugees....
pioneers, immigrants,
a people to scatter
as the dandelion seed,
perhaps to grow
somewhere else.
Away from a broken home.

Written during a time I was greatly fascinated by stories of pioneer women.