A boy whose face is innocence
Crouched warming, low, I see;
A painted flag on paper lined…
Support, he gave to me.
An angel, born with father’s eyes,
Beauty with charm-school grace;
A mother’s heart, her mother’s curls,
Whose wit kept me in place.
Big brown eyes and will to fight,
Young brother, standing tall;
Middle child with dreams of wild,
My friend, surpassing all.
Mama’s in the kitchen (always),
Ne’er a chance to rest;
Mama’s love is with me (always),
Ne’er a son so blessed.
I set my watch by Daddy, breakfast
Time and dinner, too;
I drew my strength from Daddy, for
His will would get me through.
Green grass borders circled drive
And back to pond behind;
Pine trees grow, three hundred strong,
From frosty roots they climb.
Brick and mortar, wood and glass,
A homestead built to last;
Inside, hear patters, little feet,
And whispers from my past.
Old world dies, as cotton pickers
Sing last hymn below;
New South thrives, as shakers move
To chase orbs ‘cross Jeff Road.
— BDaddy, Many years ago
