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Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill
Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face;
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.
Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.
Streaming through, flows a river Brazos
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching
Mountain top promise land dreams.
Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—
To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.
The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective:
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home…
So it’s home again and home again for me…”
My Hill—My home…My family tree. Here I grew; here I be.
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