Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Magnolia and Dogwood

It's deep night, damp and sticky with the
residue of southern heat which refuses to
totally dissipate this far into the night.

The night is thick with the voices of insects
and sleepers sweating atop their sheets,
committing sins in their vivid imaginings.

Dreaming, I'm standing by the wide river
wishing I could fly with the breeze through
the trees, the soft, warm, cradling breeze

that comes up from the Mississippi River.
It stirs the boughs of cypress and oak trees
and arouses a wind chime's music somewhere

down the dimly-lit street, while scattering
a newspaper like huge leaves; a wind that smells
of magnolia and dogwood blossoms and

river mud. A full moon casts long shadows
which melt into even darker, yet benign
shadows. The night has compiled its secrets,

mysteries, transgressions; surely that is the
charm of night - it frees the mind to settle not
on what seemed important during the day,

but on the longings kept locked away, hidden
from the disclosing light, struggling to break
free and take wing with this night wind.


Drawing on my memories from Louisiana,
where I lived nearly nine years


Susannah said...

Ooh this is thick and sticky and lush and very beautiful. Wonderful writing Warren, another feast for the senses, I could feel the heat!

Warren said...

Thank you Susannah for your reading and such wonderful comments - I'm glad you've connected with the verse!


Bill said...

You know, it feels like Louisiana, which I visited once.

Warren said...

Warm, fragrantly humid and strangely tantalizing - that's a night in Louisiana. Thanks, Bill!


Adelaide said...

Several years ago we visited a few places in the South, not Louisiana, but Georgia and So. Carolina. This brings back the warmth, the fragrances, the lazy feel of a summer day and night. I'm back there again with your poem.


Warren said...

Then you owe me for the ticket back to the South - $100! Hey, thanks for your reading, Adelaide, and I'm glad you connected with this verse.