pure as honey, sweet as grapes from the vine
deep red-purple southern muscadines
the verdant greens run the late summer lines
criss-crossed ardor and homemade wine
the silence of a southern summer night
punctuated by the sounds of modern dixie life
stars are missing from the western sky
erased on the horizon by the mall’s street lights
missing the taste of sorghum sweetened tea
or just the way that things used to be
friends and family and old memories
why is loss always the greatest part of me?
anglo-celtic, southern, russo-byzantine
what do all these random pieces mean?
stepping back i finally see the whole scene–
they make a great mosaic, with a golden sheen
like the best honey, wild-flower dark
makes the best gold-mead, so to the heart,
dark from the colors and the years of scars,
finds its wholeness in the steps of God.