Cold Saturday

The tall southern girl, with her soft, slow drawl,

is the last dream here, the last, truest siren call.

Her long chestnut hair falls down, her sweet face.

I love her, and her voice, sound of my birth place.

I remember the woods and the little streams,

owl calls, and slinking beasts, cold fey dreams.

Those sacred and secret places, cool and dark.

Even felt something watching, in the city park.

But I was a different child than the others there.

I knew of my fears and hopes they did not care.

I found God in quiet and in giving of limitless grace.

Their God was warlike, and had a blood stained face.

This tall southern girl, with that sweet sounding voice.

In the ache of a lost place, love and desire so rejoice.

See her here on Friday Night, in a loud and lurid dive.

She is the still heart of the throbbing, buzzing beehive.

Later, after I’m home, my heart still with it’s sighing ache,

I lay in the dark, without rest, my mind with dreams awake,

I get up and sketch out that tall southern girl, as an angel of the sun.

Bright halo shining warmth and love on holy, lost, on everyone.

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