At the End of the Trail of Dust

The solid gray calls me. I drag myself
on yellow grass, to rounded plains of empty
mowed fields. My once pink dress is dark
red at the hem. I can't
remember why. I have wandered
too long. The house
never grows closer, but I yearn
for that geometric
mass on my horizon, down the overgrown
road. I will find safety there, nearly out of frame.

In twilight, I arrive. My hair grown long, my sleeves
grown to white gauze, slipping off my shoulder. Up close,
the porch is warped, the house an empty
shell. How long was my journey? My grass-stained
palms could tell me, my life line, but I stare instead at
yellowgrass, the last dregs of sun disappearing
behind the horizon house. Abandoned
by all but earth and hair and gauze, I know
where I am, this silent hill. Home.

My writing process for this was simple. I just looked at both images and did some free writing, on which I based the poem.