They have unfolded one page at a time,
rubbed edges, the users have not been kind.
Tattered into frayed brown and grey edges.
Marked pages with comments, deep into wedges
of favorite places, some they did not like.
Pages keep turning, the story in spite
of critics and injections, that seem to not count
either way, they are offered
and will easily mount.
© CMM 2012
It is so easy to look back and think,
coffee on the stove, dishes in the sink.
Clothes lapping in the wind outside the door,
floors being swept with straw brooms stored.
Yelling at the children as they begin to play,
telling them ‘stay close’ throughout the day.
Lazy brown dog, sniffing for the shade,
underneath the porch, his bed he made.
Summer heat a rising and clouds begin to form,
nothing more cleansing than an afternoon storm.
Deep within the south, families all know the others,
where Sundays congregate, sisters and their brothers.
Not much left deep within summer’s south,
most of the families are scattered about.
But, if you drive down an old country road,
where there is only dirt, listening to the crickets and toads.
You might in the distance look down path to see,
a barefoot child, stick in hand, chewing on a weed.
© CMM 2012