Faye Sizemore


It rained… and rained
and finally stopped
and the mists arose
as the temperature dropped
floating over the ancient
once cotton covered fields
I heard a sound such
as the chopping hoe yields
Peering through the hazy white
I saw many shadows…
hoes raising and falling…
backs bending and raising
between the rows of mystic cotton
so white in the moonlight
and then I know I heard a jubilant song
as in the north cannon fire sounded
on it’s way to right a wrong
These ghosts chopped steadily on
knowing freedom was coming with the dawn
all this while their hoes did ring
yes… I have witnessed many times…
ghosts do walk the south in spring…