Dust on the wind and rust on the plow
Burlap dreams in the here and now
1939, Kansas sky stood still
And dresses bloomed from a cotton mill

White cotton sacks with a printed rose
Held more than flour, God only knows
Mama would cut and wash them clean
Turn hunger’s sack to a sewing machine

They wore flowers from the mill
Not bought, but built with skill
A hemline stitched from hope and grace
On little hearts in a dusty place
No brand name stitched, no fashion thrill
Just love in flowers from the mill

Calloused hands and a rusted needle
Laughed with the girls in Sunday steeple
No shame inside those makeshift seams
They danced like queens in borrowed dreams

From cracked-earth fields and worn-out shoes
Grew Sunday best from hand-me-down blues
While today we toss what we don’t need
They made beauty out of need

They wore flowers from the mill
And walked with pride so still
A patch of joy, a thread so fine
Stronger than a factory line
Let memory bloom, it always will—
Those blooming flowers from the mill

In faded cloth and sunlit thread
Their stories live though they have fled
A single dress on a windowsill...
Still whispers—flowers from the mill