Erin Cowart | + Follow Poet |
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This City

This city that made me
Strung together the mind and the eyes
So that every place I travel
Is seen through the rosy hue cast by its light

This city that nurtured me
Even as I desired to be left to die
Because I could not stand
The scent of the smallness

I wanted not to be small
And small was all it offered
I thought

This city that caused shame
Because how can good ideas
World changing words
Come from the depths of poverty held there

We poor of vanities and wealth
Know nothing
And have seen nothing
So can teach nothing to the world wearied traveler

Only now do I understand
That the lessons taught there
Can never be given by the learned
But only by the aged, old wise men rocking in their chairs

This city from which I learned the smell of strawberries
The crisp flick of the clothes whipping on the drying line
The sun beating down on Strickland’s lake clear and bright
And the smell of frying bacon and collard greens

This city which holds the memory of my youth
My mother driving me to school
Past cow pastures
Down dirt lanes that smelled dry

This city to which I return again and again
Either in form or in spirit
To learn the lessons only it can teach
Of humility, humanity

This city which holds my tether
A string to which I cling
When my heart and mind wander
To the big places in the world

This city which is now so deep
In my bones that I do not know
Where it ends and I begin
And if there is even a beginning or ending to speak

This city will be deep in my memory
And when I think of it
It will be in that hazy, subdued, beautiful way
That hallows all the creators of our lives.

Copyright © Erin Cowart | Year Posted 2020

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