brick mansions surrounded by shacks,
all sheltered by autumnal trees.
dogs with pups in the yard without a leash
nowhere to run, no desire to be free.
backroads approaching, picking up speed.
sipping home brewed iced tea.
cows in their pasture, lounging calmly,
just like the rest of us, they’re enjoying the breeze.
“don’t touch the spanish moss”
and “go check on the peach tree”
phrases spoken continuously,
my entire life, they were said to me.
down south, you can watch the night sky.
the lights all falter, just so you can see.
and during the day, if you go out in time;
all you can hear is the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of the bees.
and when the sun finally sets on a hot day,
the cicadas come out, and sing, so free,
that you open your windows to the summer air,
just so you can hear them share their music so kindly.
i think pride in origin is a foolish belief,
and regardless of whether you agree,
there is a charm found in the america’s southern states
somewhere under the rest of the nations careless debris