Huge white columns stand tall, with cracks about paint once beautifully surfaced.

Land of rolling hills past, with memories a pasture so green. Sweet honeysuckle, blackberries abundant, clover necklace painstakingly created.

The heat bares down on the skin from above. Baking the corn to a crisped brown parch.

Winding drive exists under trees hugging the path so tightly. Cars now travel where horses galloped loud.

Many to the death work for reasons only the greedy selfishly see. Now those ghosts haunt the walls and paths beyond our eyes.

The wind through the willow tree blows so softly. A perfume of gardenia and magnolia sweep through my thoughts.

The Deep South has a face of lost times but remains the center for which my memories rest.