Fields of cotton,
vast and white …
Like a rolling sea of snow in the deep, deep south.

Pecan Pie and honey,
Muscadine jelly …
So sweet, sweet in my mouth.

Mmmm, Saturday shrimp boil
and cheering for college ball.
After church on Sunday, a picnic barbecue.

Two things, for sure,
will never be missing …
and that'll be me and you.

Herds of cattle grazing,
flocks of sheep a lazing …
Tomatoes fresh off the vine.

Gentle rolling hills
and streams and caves …
Maple, Oak and Pine.

Harvest season,
kids, young and old, all squealing …
Time for the Peanut Fest.

The smells of cotton candy and corn dogs,
white knuckle rides, country music and a rodeo ...
Those times are simply the best.

The haunting shrieks of an ol' Barred Owl,
roadsides and backyards …
filled with grazing deer.

God's lovely creatures both furry and fowl …
Wild Hogs … Peregrine Falcons,
seen and heard, far and near.

Granny's Peach Cobbler,
Mom's scratch-built biscuits …
Catfish in the skillet.

Could you find something to replace
even one of these heart-warming smells?
Well, tell me then …
How will it?

A lonely train horn calls,
off in the distance …
as  I lay in my bed.

It lulls me to sleep
with a contented smile …
All these moments filling my head.

Oh,  Alabama.

All hail these small and sweet courtesies of life.
For smooth do they make the road of it.
Grace and beauty – each cut so deep like a knife.
They beg all these inclinations toward love at first sight.
Yes, ‘tis those courtesies which let the stranger in.
With tones and mannerisms - they do have such meaning.

Oh - ‘tis such a blessed thing,
One for which I could lose myself
To the honor of my aching.
I feel a heart which bears all to itself.
Oh yes, tis' open – ‘lest I shut it all out.
So I ask, “Are not my eyes the scout
For which my heart journeys?
That vision, is it not flowing through my arteries
Bringing my heartbeat’s rhythm in tune?
Oh, let that beat be mine none too soon.”

With that said, she laid out her arm in front of me.
Taking hold of her fingers in one hand, I aptly
Applied ******* of my other hand to her wrist -
Firmly - and begin counting each heart throb.
“One – two – three – four,” counting out aloud
Measuring each heartbeat as it happens –
Hoping to find the art of her fever.
I close my eyes as I continue to count – thinking –
There is no occupation in the world comparable
To feeling a woman’s pulse.
And when I had counted to twenty five
I looked up into her eyes and
At that instant I felt her pulse quicken.
She clutched my fingers tighter in the one hand
While pressing the wrist of her other hand
Harder into my account.

Is it possible for two to become one flesh and bone?
And if 'tis true, what is everything else to become?
Sometimes yours while at other times the other has it?
All the while to be generally on par tallying up the score
As we each permit the other to share in ourselves –
At least in as much as a man and a woman have the right to.
Like a bag full of pebbles which started out jagged
And rough, with very little gleam.
Only ‘tis after being years in the bag together
Do the stones, having had many amicable collisions
Wearing down their angles and edges, do they
Become well rounded and smooth with the brilliance
Of their combined luster.
Nothing to either could have been
Accomplished alone.

She looks back into my eyes as she presses her wrist into me
and asks,
“How does it beat with you?”
Placing her hand on my neck I say,
“Feel for yourself -
‘Tis an improvement –
‘Tis my evidence.”

I wish life
were as simple
as this poem
Short
and
sweet