Little Place

I grew up in a little place, tobacco fields
and ancient curing barns, so picturesque,
their tin roofs sagging and walls leaning
those log barns must have been built
long before my great grandparents' time
if you didn't work the fields, you worked
the looms of the equally old cotton mill
a few miles away in the mill-town
my little place had one stop sign,
a general store, a school, a post office
a church and an old but growing cemetery
everything centered around church
all of life was influenced by the church
tee-totaling, sin shunning Southern Baptist
that's where I learned the old hymns
I remember their tunes, can sing their lyrics
even now, in old age, odd, such remembrances


it was there my foundation was built
and my poetry was conceived and born
in the woods, old buildings, ancient hills
I took my strength from summer nights
cricket sound and lightning bugs' flight
autumn days rich with color and scent of fire
meadow grass beneath frost or heavy snow
I grew up under spreading oaks and maples
the old porch swing, knew my grandparents
my parents, my sister, my cousins.... and me
My Love and I spent summer hours there
and it was there I softly sang lullabies
to blue eyed baby boys, watching them sleep
that little place will always be who I am
often I find my thoughts and my poetry
surrounded by old times and departed souls
where pain and sorrow were overcome by love