Alabama Skies

It has been such a long time
since you looked at me with knowing eyes,
shaped in southern cotton fields
and baked by the years.
Many suns have faded
since you rained yellow smiles
on gray days, made by way of my own madness.
And those nights I staggered past you, drenched in the Devil
with eyes strained to focus on the tilted floor,
or anything that would keep me from glancing your disappointment--
what I wouldn't give to live those nights, once more.

It seems like a lifetime has passed
since you told me late-night stories
of skinned knees, from climbing Peach Trees
under Alabama Sky.
You painted vivid portraits
with milky laugh and southern drawl
of fresh catfish meals and peach cobbler pies,
and how the sparkling lake's ripples
were like the shine in Papa's eyes
and of the crumbling shack in the woods
where Gran'Ma Dicey gave you life.

Angels have arrived and Princes have been born
from the breath of your touch--
pulled from the womb by the sweet sound
of southern hymns sung from your bosom,
'till their eyes knew the color of comfort
and the calm in the crux of your clutch
and the scent of strength was familiar to them
as was to us, who came before.

I remember it all, Gran'Ma,
although I know sometimes you forget.
I can still taste your grace in the city
and feel your love in the darkest night
though the stories have been ripped away,

like faded pages of calendars past
and the draining sands of the hourglass
have blurred the vision of knowing eyes
and muted the yellow smiles.
I have come to understand
the fading suns are numbered
'till the day you make your way
back home.