You’re the dwindling edge of the rainstorm on the tin roof.
Clinks, clanks, disguising the vacillating pendulum of the clock.
The infinite tick filling the gullies between stories when
“Walker Texas Ranger” wasn’t blaring from the TV’s speakers.
You’re the walnut truck on the frayed raffia.
Always linked, threaded to a child’s palm, the rough
rope analogous to your calloused hand. Profound furrows
of your brow like the indentations of the scratched fender.
You’re the quilt, embroidered with the technicolor miracles of Jesus.
Lazarus raised, leper healed, demon cast out, fig tree withered –
that patchwork cradle that engulfs my craven body when
the world’s shadow has loomed too callous.
You’re the Pawpaw tree and we’re all your clonal understory.
Even when you crossed over Jordan, we remained, we continue.
You’re endless, interconnected labyrinth of legacy
that just keeps bearing fruit, after fruit, after fruit.
A Holler Ago
You're the verdant in the holler growing after a rainstorm. Lending toward a road few venture down eagerly. Gullies of your mind will not be held unrighteous in Glory, perhaps, taken as trueness of humanity that we all conceal.
You're the invisible cape, as you gambled a jump off that 2nd floor. Hoping nonconformity would feather and set you aloft. Dreams and druthers combined to create the ultimate flyer
not held back by physics or society's expected action of 5 years.
You're the finger stuck inside the soda can because of rationing. Kids got one a week and you wanted to weigh your allocation.
Cut on your finger, no big deal, compared to the scar above your eye, since your brother encouraged plugging the cherry bomb inside. How about you light it? You did.
You're the stone rolling and tumbling down the ridge where you rocked. Native and battling down until moss, vines, and elevation beckoned you stop.
Opening the pail, stoking the fire. Slicing the hills and potatoes, simmering the
miner's fruit. Frying and freeing yourself up on the mountain.
You're the son, brother, uncle, husband, father, grandfather, and friend unforgettable. You lived your life memorable and notable. You decided a holler ago, life would be as you intended. You fight, we'll keep fighting with you. Mercy is a collective struggle; we go on with you. On, and on, and on.
This Side of Madness with Samuel T. Phillips
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