Little Bird Poetry

 Is it too much To want to breathe the air inside your lungs  To have the over bearing desire to want to place myself under your skin Like an itch you can’t scratch Is it too much To want to hold the sides of your face Look into your eyes and see the time gone by reflected in one And the time I’ve missed in the other Is it too much To look back and want to squeeze the life from the memories we share Not through a text But to go back and actually be there? Is it too much To want to go back  And erase the earth that I’ve left scorched To be seated Watching the sunset from the porch Sitting amongst the slivers of the summer air  What I’d give sometimes to go back and be there What is it  That I’m supposed to do Is it too much To be so torn about these feelings for you?

 The Deep South, hot, humid and unforgiving, You can see it etched in the faces of those born here, In the face of the farmer, who worked beneath his father and the one before, In the face of the pastor, proclaiming his faith and preaching it out upon his weary congregation, In the face of the grocery store clerk, emptying buggies, greeting each person they meet, In the face of the hardened labor hand, working hard so the mother of his children at home doesn't have to, I see it in myself, In every mirror that hangs in these halls, The lines etched in the same places,  Those of worry, those of fear, those of disparity,  Those of laughter shared, smiles that never quite faded,  This land is tough, so is this town, Each and every one that comes and goes, Yet, it feels so foreign to me. My hands are no longer calloused and rough, The skin on my back has softened, My skin glows white like the moon, Instead of reflecting a tan from the hot summer sun, I am from this red cl...

 I stare down the same oak tree that has been imprinted on my earliest memories, I've watched it through the seasons, Lush and green, Barren and brown with cold wind moving it's branches, I have seen many a "Car for Sale by Owner" parked in the shade, Lemonade stands, Yard sales, Even trucks with the bed down, holding a litter of puppies, "free to a good home", Men, women, children, Hundreds of faces, People who make up the blood and backbone of this tiny town, All have come together beneath this tree, I see it everyday now, Like a checkpoint, A save, I've made it far enough to see this tree, That has watched three generations of my family drive by, I wonder if any other of them notice it, This old oak seated by the intersection of railway and roadway, Just down the road, From my grandparent's home, The one where my aunts grew up, Where my father picked up my mother for their first date, Right down the road from the first double wide that became the ...