I want my body bathed again by southern suns, my soul
reclaimed again from southern land. I want to
again in southern fields, in grass and hay and
bloom; to lay my hand again upon the clay baked
southern sun, to touch the rain-soaked earth
the smell of soil.
I want my rest unbroken in the fields of southern earth;
freedom to watch the corn wave silver in the
mark the splashing of a brook, a pond with
frogs and count the clouds.
I want no mobs to wrench me from my southern rest; no
forms to take me in the night and burn my shack
make for me a nightmare full of oil and flame.
I want my careless song to strike no minor key; no fiend to
stand between my body’s southern song–the
the South, my body’s song and me.
I like this poem for its sense of place: both good and bad. And, I really, really love the final line of this poem: “the fusion of the South — my body’s song and me.”
Is there a poem with a final line that always grabs you?
Picture found here.