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Poem

Behind the magnolia curtain, childhood ne’er knew.
Drawn to Sleepy Hollow - over the river, really
mountains; and the thruway, to Grandma’s we go.

Magnificent magnolias, bountiful with perfume,
born when I was steeped in maturity. Now I know
the shiny leaves that tremble in hot ‘lanta breeze.

Whilst the ghosts of the Catskills clip clop; shadows
that fell the canopy of treetops; the Borscht Belt
entertaining with neon signs, drawing my eyes.

Crépe myrtles connect the present and past,
I’d not notice the smooth legs until the gypsy eyes,
of a poet, were mesmerized by these sprightly trees.

Gone With the Wind comes to life as I entered
North Carolina life, bigger than life; Miss Daisy,
was driving me crazy; the drama of a small town,

I’d ne’er known, now bit my hands, slammed
my fingers in the door, waged jealousy and more;
brought to the surface my lack of skill and sins.

I gained my bearings, muscled my spirituality,
in other words prayed, bumbled, hurrayed any inroads,
gained love and fascination for these characters.

First thing said to me by the closest coworker:
“I know how much you make!”
‘Well, howdy do, and bless your heart’ -

that last bit, the burn I learned in the deep South.
You see in the Catskill mountains, we lob heads off,
well, at least the Headless Horseman does the dirty work.

Sweet smell of magnolias, Southern belles, mean old South;
still I met my best friend as I landed in Marietta -
I admire her, she’s kind, and wise, perfect in my eyes.

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