At Home with Wild Horses and Wild Muscadines


The old soul in me remembers
our time in frigid climate,
when the hooves of wild mustangs
beat against our loyal breast,
when silos quit
standing tall with grain,
and retreated deep beneath the earth

In the dark of that winter,
the promise of our end
moved like a phantom,
cat-stepping on future graves,
and you (and I),
with our Christ-like resignation,
denied the fear of certain death.

But we differ now,
I’ve left behind the frozen tundra,
moved south – planted a garden,
I no longer admire your rising sun.
In the south,
where death feels real,
our summer is a time of none.

Here, your heat,
manmade and precious,
scorches life
from tender stalk,
It dries the leaf,
and harms the natives,
bringing cancers to our bones.

Southern wilds
turn back from thunder,
to blossom set
and muscadine,
and our citrus hangs
green with disease
beneath that new made sun.

KMcGee – 2016