The trees here cradle me
And rain drenches and
Quenches the thirst of my soul.

And I'm taken back to that place
Where Dickinson would take me as a child.

She wrote of these hills-
I'm sure of it,
These small roads, so sleepy and quiet
Whispering would wake them.

Where songs from the piano ring out
And float upward,
But never escape these perfect canopies.

And sweet tea kisses my lips-
And it is poetry
When cheerful voices wrap around
The wooden porches of this tiny town-

Telling stories,
Whose faces belong wrapped in the lockets of time
That beckon lost souls to believe.


How I fall in love Here
With the old
Wooden staircases,
Book after book-
Row after row,
And I breathe still,

As I near the quiet picture windows
Thick with history;
Like a sonnet from a black and white
Memory.

And the scholars with their
Horn-rimmed classes,
And their fancy ties,
Southern drawls
And
Southern bell wives;

Each perfectly crafted characters of
A story-

That I'll someday tell

If anyone ever asks me what Christ has done for me.

I'll tell them he lead me here,
To this Paradise,
That I've only ever found in poetry;

This heaven.
This symphony.