I’m deep in the south
Dripping in Spanish moss;
My hair caressed gently
By a sleepy, warm breeze.
Under an umbrella, striped red and white;
A black man protects himself
From mid-afternoon swelter,
As he saunters across the street.
Colonial brick houses with wrought iron rails,
And stylish porticos of splendid bright hues,
Surround twenty-one squares: thick, cool and green,
Inviting with benches, fountains and trees.
Even their dead are memorialized grandly
In places with names like “Bonaventure”;
Ornate gravestones aged with distinction,
Found among statutes, obelisks and tombs.
In this river town
Manners and style still have value;
Culture and tradition,
Still prized.
She is as much a mood
As a place;
Juxtaposed temporally
Against the harsh, outer world.
And though just a stranger,
I am welcomed into her warm arms,
And tenderly rocked
By her deep, subtle rhythms.
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