A Map Dot in Georgia
Remembering family summers in Georgia.
Boiled peanuts, sweet peaches and cold snow cones,
lazy days with a book under pine trees,
catfish stew, slow-cooked, by men in the zone,
reunions and cousins and skinned-up knees.
The family farm has not changed a bit.
Solid red clay on bare feet feels like home.
Fireworks and tall tales, in truck beds we sit.
Family, always, though we all may roam.
A cold watermelon, low-country broil,
volleyball, tag, and some good-natured fun.
Generations before us toiled this soil,
so that we can frolic, play in the sun.
Summers may end and relatives may part,
but those Georgia days live on in my heart.