box 27 to be exact,
on a road also called Old 31,
I lived there happily for more than
twelve years –
until my Grandfather decided to retire from
the police department and move South;
I was never so upset as to be uprooted from
everything I knew to move two states South,
where people had a drawl that I could barely
understand,
almost like moving to a new country;
my Grandmother was not happy to uproot her
Hoosier self and move to Tennessee where the
dirt was red and moved like balls of clay;
nothing smelled better than Indiana dirt.
The move was shock,
but we adjusted and it wasn’t long until our new
life was acclimated and churched.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/14/2015
Red dirt moving like balls of clay, acclimated and churched, I feel the south. Reminds me of Patricia Smith describing the south her mother grew up in as “pea shuck” and “slant porch.” Sometimes little words or phrases say so much.
Thank you for your comments on my poetry. Rural life is certainly a playground for a poet!
Thank you for your comments on my poetry. Rural life is certainly a playground for a poet!