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.