The Southland

A poem

I live in a place where

each day feels like being

held by the sun,

The palm trees sway here

like a couple slow dancing,

ever closer to the equator,

thé Crêpe Myrtle bark

like pale, soft bone

beneath the palm of my hand,

My mind wanders to

harsh midwestern winters

of ice and shrill arctic winds,

cold nights and woolen socks,

I delight now in the warm embrace

of enchantment and grace,

A silver haired woman

rides her bike into the horizon,

the ocean and tides are palpable

on the wind,

I feel the moon delight

in staccato sounds of

songbirds singing into night,

What wonder of wonders

to be alive in such a land,

And yet Mother Earth is also weeping,

Her rivers in the greedy hands of oil men

Wrecking rivers,

Men still mad with manifest destiny fracking

cool generous streams,

the indigenous in danger of losing

her,

It is not lost on me,

the fragile nature of things.