More Poetry

So now that I have discovered how easy it is to come up with a blog post if I just throw a poem on here... well look out because I'm too lazy busy sometimes to think of something brilliant to write.  So I pulled out something I wrote many years ago.  It does have to do with Deltaville as that is the "setting" of the poem so to speak.  Oh, and the definition of psithurism is the sound of the wind whispering through the trees (found that in the Balderdash game... love that game)

                                  Psithurisms

                    On nights when the pines talked

                    We shared whispered secrets

                    Behind heavy olive drapes.

                    "I think we should go swimming

                    off the pier," you'd say.

                     "Hey let's scare the neighbors with our cap guns,"

                     I'd offer.

                     Each summer we whispered

                     Staring up at the ceiling of the ancient trailer.

                     At 13 we discovered boys.

                     "Randon held my hand while roller skating,"

                     you offered like a confession to a priest.

                     "Was his hand sweaty?"

                     I wanted to know.

                     At 16 I was alone in the living room.

                     Our great-uncle dying in the house next door.

                      "Do you believe in God?" I whispered

                      to no one but the ceiling.

                      At 20 I was getting a divorce

                      Faced with raising a child alone.

                      It was the first year

                      I wasn't able to go to the trailer.

                      At 22 I visited the new house standing

                      where our old trailer used to be.

                      I stood outside with familiar pines

                      Staring up into the blind eye of God

                      Like the eye of a storm

                      silent with no wind.

                      The pines quiet like you and I

                       -- cousins grown too old for whispers.

We're still close, just not like we were when we were little...