Humid wind clings to me
like an old song,
a tune I’ve heard before.
Memories gallop across
the azaleas and dance
between your arms.
Holding me in a time
that whispers tales of history.
I surrender sweetly into its grace.
Night and day, I carry
your verse in my heart.
The chorus weaves in and
out of my mind,
preparing me for what’s to come.
Clouds drift by,
blanketing the midnight song.
Pours your kept memories
into my empty glass.
A thirst I no longer have,
content to be home
where the pine trees sway,
filling my lungs with fresh air.
Charm that flourishes
as the gardenias bloom
like a child with an
answer, knowing the
simplicity of comfort.
An old-fashioned melody
that rings beyond the
ever moving growth of what’s
to come.
It enters a space of gratitude,
appreciation, a formality
that swings with peace
and tranquility.
I’ll always hold its hand,
for it is a part of me,
that I’ll never let go.
Goodbye, my southern dream.
May your past echo,
and sing forevermore.
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