Carolina Wren

grandmother hums a lullaby 

sung by Carolina wrens 

from the swamps of

her childhood 

sweltering heat:

iced lemonade tastes

sweet with a lingering

bitterness 

her midi skirt the

crimson of roses

plucked at their prime 

her eyes reflect 

gray-blue skies–

even the clouds

cannot settle 

if history will

repeat itself

haunted melodies 

of women torn

from their homes

indelible six 

decades earlier 

neighbors raise 

American flags 

and listen to

the same song