Rockin’ a chair on the balcony
of my dreams in real time:
cast iron rest for my feet
chipped dark green shutters in an old struggling
marriage with antique floor to ceiling windows;
both faithful to each other, dilapidatedly drafty
peering through the leaves of trees, honeysuckled
showing glimpses of old world french colonial mansions;
right here close now as my neighbor
indulging in food fresh from the earth
gazing at oil lamps on front porches
listening to the illustrious ol’ miss carried on the brunch breeze
alongside the woman even a dream could not imagine
all gently tossed as god’s ingredients for purpose
baked by the warm february sun…
this fine, fine southern saturday!
af
(written with pen on paper, feeling exactly how it sounds)
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