Witness

Witness

Monday, November 7, 2011

Morning Dew

at my feet,
prisms of dew splash the ground cover before me...
potential  composite rainbows of light within each drop... a majestic microcosm of
their sky-clad kin.

...the drops of pure moisture are as sweet nectar to the marsh rabbits and fairies that inhabit these woods...
cold dampness permeates my clothing,  but it will disipate soon with the coming of
the morning sun.

...the clang of pots and pans behind me, a reminder of the breakfast that must  soon  come.

...inhaling deeply the moist air about me,  I break the new silence with a heavy exhalation...
stirring some grouse nearby.

a newness seems to frame the morning air... interlaced with the bitter-sweet smell of  campfire coffee...a still moment precedes another still moment...

i ask myself, "do you think this can be real"?

I taste the fresh brewed coffee....and conclude that this must be real, as I am certain a phantasm
would surely taste better than this!

Gregory Sexton


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Those Dixie Storms

Claps of thunder and wisps of coastal winds give signal to the storm approachin',
Drops of a bitter-sweet rain trace down my face...wetting my lips and clearing my frown.


I hear myself whisper - "A truce must be drawn"...between the warrior within, and the coward without.
The cobblestones echo my footsteps as the day seems to hasten below the horizon...

Magnolias and giant Oak canopy the path to the old plantation, and granite stones;
scribed reminders of former generations dot the grave just past the old barn...
now dilapidated and ignored from years of indifference.


I remember growing up here - the heat, the slow pace of life, the white sands, the Live Oaks and Palmettos and of course.....those Dixie Storms.They come...like sheets of celophane racing across the fields, soon to drench the ground and the cobblestone lanes; the rains mirror the fury of the gusts...
tossing each and every raindrop like marbles dropped from a bucket - escorted by a celestial drum corps of thunder and cymbal claps...

How I do miss those Dixie Storms.


Gregory Sexton