Faye Sizemore


Always in the south
the month of April is strange
Some things become closer in range
Old pages of Civil War history
unveiling to some their mystery
There are those who believe they can hear
and revere what the South still holds dear
… their own sons in conflict and battle
heard again in a spring storms rattle…
the firing of guns and battle cries…
weeping of mothers and widows sighs
It is just one of the storms of spring
Old ghosts it calls up… Old mysteries does bring
for under the dogwoods and red-buds…
the thunder of cannons and battles still ring
as do the cries of lost heroes caught in time…
laid to rest in strange soil with strange rhyme
… muted in sorrow you can hear their voices sing
Today I marched ahead of the cannons bellowing
close enough for their bloods spattering
then blinking my eyes… and wincing in pain…
wiping my face I found no blood… only April rain
… but I was surely within battle range
Springtime in the South has always been strange…