Above Florida Sand
John Clare Stokes
As my days upon the Florida sand grow long
I am hearing a once faint song growing strong
It wafts through the breezeway of old Johnson’s
Stirs the fire beneath the curing hams in the smokehouse
Fells the sweetgum leaves in Stewart’s yard
Shifts to low down the long lane again
As I stand gazing in the open field below
The mantle flutters to sand as I go.
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