SUMMER'S SONG

It’s a Cicada summer full of hot intentions. The temperature is 92 and its evening…a sultry night with whirring fans, exchanging one hot breeze for another. The swing creaks with well-worn songs decades old; bluesy numbers full of yesterday… My first remembrance of the “swing music” was on my Mamaw’s porch. It was a small…

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Traces

My Aunt Ada was an artist. Well, sort of. Perhaps she was more of a wanna be artist. I am. I get that. I have a small framed pen and ink she did. It’s uh, well, identifiable. I think that’s important unless you’re modernistic in your expressions. I once water-colored a flower that appeared to…

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