Oh when i hear that southern drawl
The kind that originates
In the mother land,
the Wide East...
That language of tongue that is not
Tone alone, but slang and wit and
Whip-fast clever, a posture
and a history...
Do not mistake my polite nods
for empty listening.
That language creeps into me like a mountain rain,
drifting above freshwater pools and lakes of emerald
in an updraft,
collecting at the ridges and peaks that are
of my ancestors
weighted down by law and conquest
they offer me their suffering
and call it a better life
on their steep slopes
salt drips crashing through the currents
resting in pools and pristine waters
that would pose as the sky..
cracked canyon smiles,
haunting granite faces:
i am a rain