Recipes from the South

My real dad used to tell me to dream with a heart bigger than Mount Everest---but to always be okay with having leftover leftovers for supper. Actually, he never said that; or, if he did, it was at the bar and no one heard it over the jukebox and laughter; the clanking of bottles---raw and flailing souls of men and gals searching. Thus, my overall demeanor was mostly concocted in and out of the rat shit that covered the floors of our ugly blue trailer. I was more humble than a tumbleweed. I knew everything was stationed way up from me, especially the sun made of gold. But---God bless---there were folks over the years who could recognize this meekness for its beans and knew exactly just how to make it shine: indeed, that old woman from Hazard, Kentucky, who taught me how to blend into the bright and colorful songs of dawn's cardinals, so gently, the sizzle of a country ham steak. "Just like that," she said.

closing my eyes

to gather its worth,

a moonlit icicle