Free write

by Anita Gail Jones
(written Oct. 23, 2009)

Albany, GA    • Photo by Anita Gail Jones  © 2012

Wrap the children in revival language
Swaddle them in the sound from our past,
the liquid coos and grunts of ancestors,
left to us like ancient calls from birds
now extinct but remembered through the
the Mockingbird’s song on my garden fence.

The sound of our past carries through,
rides the waves of time and people
to arrive safely on our lips—
not to languish there,
but to be passed on,
a hot potato—don’t drop—don’t stop—
let it fly like an aeroplane,  catching wind;
like a balloon filled with the hot air of desire not
to to be forgotten,
to live forever in the hearts and minds of
all who hear,
and all who know what it is like