Southern Charm
The humid heat lays heavy like a hand upon the porch,
And the rattle of ice in old mason jars.
There is no hurry here; the clock is just a habit,
And the afternoon keeps its own sweet time.
Politeness is woven deep into the grain,
A softened cadence in the yes, ma’am,
And a wave from the truck on the red dirt road,
Neighborly grace passed fence to fence
Like warm cornbread wrapped in a clean dish towel.
Down where the live oaks bow their heavy heads,
Spanish moss hangs low as river mist,
Guarding the quiet between church bells and cicadas.
Here, stories stretch longer than the shadows,
Steeped in kindness, sharp with wit,
Leaving the door unlatched till dusk
And a spare rocker waiting in the shade.
Where the blackwater curls around cypress knees,
And the current moves gentle as an old hymn sung soft and low,
Salt air drifts in from the hidden reaches of the bay,
Tangled in the gray beard of Spanish moss
And the sweet, heavy breath of wild jasmine.
Here, hospitality is measured by the tide:
A hand raised from a passing skiff,
The easy share of a fresh catch and dockside stories,
Warm greetings carried across the brackish reed
As if every stranger were simply kin-folk running late.
The evening settles like amber on the glassy run,
Softening the bite of the blades of marsh grass,
While cicadas tune their twilight choir.
Charm is the patience of the water itself,
Lingering, quiet, making room for all that drifts
Into the shelter of the bayou’s open arms.
Old men and women gently argue over who caught the bigger fish,
Their laughter rolling like thunder over calm water,
Softening the edges of the dark.
Screens tap shut against the cooling night,
Sweet tea turns to porch-light bourbon,
And the crickets take over the sermon.
No matter how far you’ve traveled or how deep the river runs,
There’s always a plate kept warm,
A place to tie off your boat,
And a lantern burning by the door,
Bidding the evening goodnight until the break of dawn.
Copyright © Deborah Seale | Year Posted 2026
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