Southern Ways
Sheets of spring rain, gray as Spanish moss
on the live oak—secrets the soulangeana flowers,
saucers of soft white and pink velveteen
that fall silently to cover winter’s red camellias.
Southern seasons blur, confuse Northern eyes
used to hard edges, stick sharp outlines.
The sudden, unmannered, raucous Sousa of color
as spring marches across winter woods—uppity.
I am slow to learn the genteel ways of Southern style—
Miss before, honey after given names, and always mercy—
chiffon veiled references to subjects not spoken aloud,
like sun in winter—softened by humid air—and Spanish moss.
**
Street Cleaner
Warm winter winds whip rain soaked tumbleweeds
of Spanish moss from live oak trees—carry clings
of twisted limbs laden with algae and resurrection fern—
fall gracelessly to ground—
clog storm sewers, obstruct obsidian slick streets,
resemble hunkering animals slouching to safety
in curbsides where they will molder ignored—
until my neighbor—
high rubber boots, faded blue sweatshirt, wheelbarrows
down the street—broom and barn shovel in hand,
gathers a city block’s worth of debris she organizes in mounds—
odor of must and funk
filling the space around her. Pulls down tendrils—
grey-green locks, curling and resistant, home
to yellow-throated warblers, northern parulas
and Seminole bats—
and chiggers—scourge of the south–impossible
to eliminate, like the Spanish moss—hairy-sailed seeds
carried on wet winds to sprout, unkempt grizzled beards
my neighbor trims.
**
Springtime Tallahassee
Cousin Lola can’t abide dead cat holes—
fills every nook and surface with mementos,
photos, trinkets—relates their dates of acquisition,
stories—museum curator of her own life.
Points to the picture of herself— #3247 pinned to her shorts—
reminds me of the day I took that shot—standing
on the front steps as 3500 people ran, jogged, walked
and panted past—Lola, in her fifties then—
part of the jogging contingent—determined
to complete the 10K before the police—motorcycle
lights strobe flashing blue and white—herded
the stragglers off the street onto the ignominy of sidewalk.
Down from me two men cheering and clapping handed out
Little Debbies on-a-stick, but didn’t have many takers—
after the race, gave them to drivers, cars
held up by emergency vehicles tailing the racers.
I thought of asking for a few but my stomach
felt a bit queasy after eating two Krispy Kreme donuts—
one filled with custard and covered in chocolate—
breakfast treat rebellion against all that display
of healthy living running past. I’m generally pretty careful
about what I eat—oatmeal and raisins or blueberries standard fare—
even though I really count on long-life family genes.
I just hope I don’t run out of memory space—start discarding facts—
a trend among my mother’s sisters. It doesn’t trouble them
the way physical incapacity does. Aunt Dora gets really snarly
she can’t climb a ladder anymore—dizzy spells—and Aunt Tess
literally snaps when she needs help with a necklace clasp.
So I understand Cousin Lola’s determination to keep everything
in the forefront of her life—if she can navigate around her household
memorabilia as well as tell their stories than even though
she can no longer run in the Springtime Tallahassee Race—at 87 she’s okay.
**
Jungle Memories
Steam rises from the ground in plumes as we deplane–
equatorial Nigeria–breath cut, smothered by stagnant
earthy air. Moisture cloaks us, muffles sound,
halos our vision.
Jungle kept at bay by burning–smell of smoke masks
the sweet scent of aromatic oils after daily downpours.
We TB test–elders first, then families, in remote villages,
long huts thatch covered.
Years after–when I press close–bury my face–
in my dog’s long fur–I remember–the fecundity of the jungle,
redolent, dripping with tropical rain–and sometimes
when I see Spanish moss.
