A poem that Antonio wrote about our trip

Whisper Natchez, Call Chickasaw

The grass must bend and roll,

near the cat-tails that bow

to the rippling water of the heart,

the providence of the soul.

Southwest Mississippi, near the border of Louisiana

The old man's beard, Spanish moss does not grow

But exists, breathing life into the forms surrounding,

Taller than time itself.

That imperial and solemn language of the dead

resonates in the the silent blooms stacked on hills

beneath the great sun. Let down your tresses,

sweet tender-footed ancestry.

When we say yours is lost to time,

what we really mean is that we are lost in our own time.

Unlike you, we have forgotten to remember

we must forget time if we are to live.