Mississippi writers come from
pollen-coated porches
and stone circled gardens,
where cotton snows
in July over red clay farms
catfish ponds
lightnin’ bug jars.
Mudpie contessas become
Miss Universe, America
pensively confesses, living the
childhood play-house dream.
Sipping sweet tea is best
in a creaking wooden rocker
on Nanas porch by the oak tree
nestled among the pinetree
evergreens.
Still sweetmornings in the Delta
milking cows before
sunrisin’, bare
foot races
painted carnival faces
ankledeep muddy creekbed places
cool attic crawlspaces
make writers
in Mississippi. 
