Whistle Dixie
Seems we have grown
too self-conscious
to pucker-up-and-blow,
in the street or at the grocery store.
No more Hoosier Sundays,
church lady trumpeting
the walls of Jericho, clutching
a badly bound hymn book,
out-tooting a tea kettle.
My natural-born whistler
throws caution to the wind
and whets his with abandon,
serenading my mornings,
like the scent of all the lilacs in Ohio.
I smile and come to breakfast
like a well-trained pet.
Tess Kincaid
March 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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