It rolled in gently
at dawn
like the fog in from the Gulf, and
Came up the drive, skipping with
the
dogwood blossoms blown by
the mornin’
breeze.
It climbed the stairs
and crept slowly across the veranda,
moving each
step carefully,
in
the manner of an old, gray woman
on the steps of the Second Baptist Church.
It knocked on the oak door with
the morning sun,
Softly at first, then louder.
When I did not answer,
it crept under the door,
mixing
with the scent of the magnolias,
And wandered around my house,
Here and there, touching dusty picture frames
and faded
souvenirs from fairs and carnivals.
I
found fingerprints as proof.
It stopped in the kitchen and,
peaking inside a simmering pot,
added spices
at will.
It headed upstairs, running its
fingertips
along the smooth, twisting banister.
The house
quivered with the tickle.
When it came to my room,
it did not knock, but, ever so quietly,
slid through
the door and across the floor.
And sat in my royal-pink brushed-velvet
wing-backed chair,
and waited.
When I did not wake,
it crept into my bed.
Laying like spoons, we slept
through the morning
and just before midday
I woke
up southern.
~ Elizabeth “Missy” Ragona
May 19, 1994