One of God's Best Kept

There is a sound so faint at times
if you don't take a moment you will miss
this soft gentle rustle of life.

It is the blood of the south flowing
through the veins of her people
coursing along so slow, so steady
like the Mississippi.

You will miss it if you rush, you
will miss the smell of fried catfish
waffing in the air, tickling your nose
with the promise of a full plate.

There is a cadence, the ebb and trill, shrill
at times and then reaching crescendo with
sounds of the Cicada's mating in the trees while
the whole south is in attendance for their
love making.

Softly at times the wind moans as it
struggles to push armsfulls of sticky
black clouds across the bayous and
across the cottonfields to the North.

If you sit on the porch quietly you will
feel all this, it carresses your skin
as softly as the warmth from the Gulf,
and wraps you like velvet.

There is a flavor to Louisiana, a taste
of richness a blend that makes you want
to lick your plate and ask for more.
Louisiana Winds

It is a night of change, of challenging things
so swift so smooth creeping in through a groove
around the corner past the gate on and on
could not wait nor hesitate whilst not be late.

On steady, upward upward, climbing still
tis the wind wafting ore an aroma more,
or no, like a fog swift and chill, seeping still
the cold, the cold, the bitter cold.

A finger pointing crooked and bent
a shadow sent across the ground
moving swift, as night comes on
then once more gone, the air is still.

The sound was shrill from whence it came
back again, now calm once more even score,
and all that bent and trashed about
has leveled out, softly shut the door.

Visit with me at the Front Porch, and listen to Earl Klugh
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