WAY DOWN SOUTH
Gretchen Fletcher

They sat on sentimental porches with keepsakes
of gray paint coming off in chips,
mesmerized by a Lethean rain that dripped
off the eaves onto crepe myrtle
mimosa and camellias, magnolias and all

their murmured memories. Their dreams
unraveled like woven wicker
in humidity, and they fanned away
the pesky reminders of sorrows that had
fallen on the house of their ancestors

whose visages they seemed to see still
in the stand of live oaks that wore moss beards
as the dogwood out back wore the prints of Love.
They were a family upheld by Doric columns,
surrounded by balustrades and banisters.