The South Begs for Idleness

There’s springtime, so short
between winter and summer you can’t blink
or you’ll miss it flying by. And it is flying,
the spring; everything’s in the air…insects drunk
off the smells of the flowers, the cries
from the stands as a pop-fly comes down
besides your dad’s pickup truck, all the fresh
baby birds trying to figure out their little wet wings.
Wasps chew the wood off the deck for their nests
and you can’t help but stare, hoping they stay
on the cracked wood and rusting nails
and don’t give two shakes towards you.
The South begs for idleness.

Quiet. Long lazy, hazy, summer
days, the kind that make you sweat
as you open the door. Hot wind
rustles through magnolia leaves and lifts
sun-colored layers of pollen off in waves.
In those peace-filled summer nights, the ones
that only start to cool after the moon has climbed
the sky, when there’s nothing else to do
but regard the moths fluttering towards
porch-light, the weight of bygone hoopskirts
and mint-juleps and the not-so-distant remnants
of a supper of fried squash and okra are all that’s needed
to listen to the drawling voice that begs
a few more minutes doing nothing.

Well, it’s the first new bit I’ve written in a while that I’m feeling some confidence about. Then again, it’s only been a little over a month since I’ve been back home (and only a week or so since it really started to feel like true Southern summer), so there’s that.



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