Poem By Mary Newlon
The gusts of the wind, blast,
Ripping houses from there planted down beds.
The blowing ceases to last
But it’s enough to cause some to be dead
To watch a loved one fly to there death
Is too painful for describing
We watch them fall and hold our breath
As we listen to friends subscribing
Our land is flat
And it makes us prone
To bring us up to that
And just might take us to our heavenly home.