![]() Where Words Go to DieA Poem by devonA family member, though I can’t remember who, Once said that in gardening, it’s all about the roots With linguistics, so I've learned, the same holds true In everything, it’s all about the roots I want to dig up and transplant the way that mama says “Millions”, the ‘mi’ becoming me, Every vibrantly green syllable Nurtured by rich, southern soil “Bubba”, my papa was called, and “Bubba”, my Nana had called him, and with a single utterance, She pulled on her yellow gloves and ridded the Pollyanna growing rampant in his heart The most beautiful flower erupted in their wake Uncle Howard used to have a way of saying the lord’s Name in vain - before the cancer uprooted him - that Cultured a green, long, and leafy stem, that grew and grew Until it tickled God’s nose from underneath him Baby’s breath sprouts from every word ever spoken from the mouth of a three-year-old babe, her juvenile Sentences cultivating trademark white blossoms - God, how I wish to replant them all in The garden of nostalgia outside my home A rusty spade could do the dirty work, steal away the Roots of each sentimental jargon The earth would open wide to swallow The seeds of cherished vernacular Naked hands would spread darkened dirt over Patois’s grave And my childhood watering can would spill echoes Of memories of conversations to quench the germinating thirst, and In my garden of colloquialisms and dialectical quirks I would have buried the language of the living and the tongue of the long ago dead © 2015 devonFeatured Review
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Added on April 6, 2014Last Updated on February 17, 2015 Author
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