Scrub Country Poem
Carry me on the voice of crows;
I’ll live the harsh music of your days,
hold the cicada heart of the evening,
the humming dusk, close to me.
Carry me to the pine-top sun;
a corvine shadow, I seek my name,
no more than a whispered sigh
of Spanish moss, a campfire song.
No more than the afternoon rain,
conversing with palmetto fronds –
Carry me on the voice of rivers;
I’ll wear the heat of distant skies.
Stephen Brooke ©2005
I rarely write poems about places and even less the part of Florida where I live. If this really is about a place!