“Southern”

In the rush of a porch swing at dusk’s golden hush,
Where magnolia dreams bloom in air thick and lush,
A table is set not just with fried okra and grace
But with memory’s lace in each time-honored place.

The skillet sings songs passed down through the years,
Grease popping like laughter, or sometimes like tears.
Cornbread in cast iron, sweet tea in a jar,
And stories that stretch from the past to the stars.

There’s Grandma’s soft hands, wrinkled maps of the land,
That folded the biscuits with flour-caked hands.
And Mama’s red apron, stained by the years,
Still holds every secret and season and tear.

Each plate is a prayer, each bite is a kiss,
A slow, sacred waltz through generational bliss.
Barbecue smoke rises like hymns to the sky
A gospel of greens, a potato pie sigh.

The hush puppies hush, but the hearts speak aloud,
As cousins and kinfolk form one noisy crowd.
And love, always love, is the main course served warm,
In traditions that weathered both calm and the storm.

For here in the South, where the magnolia bends low,
Our roots run as deep as the beans in the row.
And though times may change, one truth always stands
Family and food are the soul of this land.

-Ben Vaughn