A Homestead's Winter

White faces all around; Not of race nor that of bleach: Walking, sitting on ground, Some running their home to reach. What cause so great a scene? At a time when oil is seen. Cracked lips the tongue can feel; Not of hunger nor a fight: Yet it took long to heal, Every passing day and night. From whence comes such a pain? That grease gentle touch can't tame. Dried skins roaming the street; With unease from place to place: Under sun's scorching heat, But the cause none wish to trace. Days business all they cared, Not the state they should have feared.