Born In the Branches of the Live Oak Trees

Earlier days were filled
with muggy, mosquito-peppered
summers, wading through
thick mud and thicker
daydreams,
crawling through tall grass
climbing trees to
catch robins in their nest

It's true, my voice is
made of mandolins
and lemonade,
no matter how many
times I rebuff and polish
it to a traceless shine,
that faint edge of
of Great-Aunt Nell's
old fashioned charm
(and her manners to boot)
seep through like
honey across it's surface

My roots, along with all
its soi(u)l,
cannot be washed away.