I am of the South.
Rooted in the rich dark soil,
The hard clays,
The deep swamps,
The pluff mud,
And sandy shores,
And the hard granite of high mountains,
Like the tobacco and cotton,
The sweet onion and low country tomato,
The rice, indigo and sorghum of present and past.
Birthed and raised in the warm, heavy air,
Redolent of azalea and magnolia,
Pork barbeque and Beaufort stew, and sweet tea,
Respired by my Grandfolk and their Grandfolk before.
What is the South?
Tales and histories.
It’s sweat and blood,
and simple joys.
It’s homes and businesses and parks and secret fishing holes,
New built cities,
And near-forgotten towns.
It’s the memories of all of those.
The dreams of all those to come.
It’s the weight of us pressing on the skin of the world.
It’s the tale told that tells us who we are.
This is me,
Man of the South.