Southern Summers
A two-story house stands silent,
no longer prideful of its bay window,
running water in the kitchen,
and a shower in the basement,
or of having erased memories
of shotgun houses with no heat
and back-yard water pumps.
Its blank windows stare
onto fields where cotton once grew
tall and green; where stinging dirt clods
flew from our brother's straight arm,
whose aim my sister and I could never match.
Its closed face once laughed
at red noses, dust-crusted necks, muscles
tightening under skin worn waxed-paper thin
by twelve-hour days under burning skies
and the bitter taste of ashes
blown in by a greedy little weevil.
Our minds hung heavy
with hard-packed dirt and skimpy crops
as our hoes wielded strength and hope,
our toil fueled by dreams
of emerald fields and rain-kissed rows,
our memories ripe with younger days
when we swam in creeks, bucketed
minnows, and climbed trees
in search of possum grapes.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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