The open door
Ascending steps
No one about
Thoughts race
Courage steeled
Spanish Street
Heading North on Spanish Street,
Having passed beneath the shade of its trees,
And its white washed walls and embowered balconies
That hug the narrow brick-paved street,
We pause to turn in contemplation,
As if we might gather up the solace we found here
Before we continue our journey toward home.
Windows
Some look in windows,
Some look out.
Some look at windows
Walking about.
Note from a Charleston Garden
It is easier, I think, to argue for the existence of God while standing in a well-tended garden.
Apalachicola Storm
Miss Martha’s tied tight
Her crew long gone to shelter –
Nor’easter quiet
Balcony
Embowered by these unkempt oaks
This balcony serves well
To spy on life below but
Safe from annoying engagement.
Cumberland
I am making my way toward the island’s main house from the boat landing. Having some distance to go, and these old legs growing tired, I find myself drawn to that table and those chairs to my right. They are calling to me from the cool of the shade of the meandering branches of those old oaks, and I fancy they have been waiting patiently for my weary passing along this dusty path this hot and humid dog-day Georgia afternoon.
