I drive through milesof cotton fields.
White tufts erupt
from bolls
like butterflies
from cocoons.
The Louisiana
delta spreads out,
offers herself
like a lover
with secrets.
She sings primitive
salutations to the sun,
gospels of slaves.
On one side, the fields;
on the other, dark, wooded swamp.
Palmettos punctuate the gloom.
Cypress and still water.
Mounds built by Indians
who weren't from India,
after all, remind me.
This place is ancient.
My father brought me hunting here.
His father brought him.
I miss them.
It seems so
long ago, but it is only an
instant, and I am
just passing through.
I am a storm in summer,
all rush and splash, bluster
and boom,
sudden but brief, leaving only
vapor when I'm gone.
Elodie Pritchartt
09/25/12
