Post-Post-Modern-Post-Coronavirus.

Let's see if this works. It's been months since I blogged.

(Or clogged. Then again, I think I may never have clogged.)

Another poem by my grandmother. I think I told you before she died at age 26; that's not true, she was only 22 when she died. So correction there.

Madge Hall Thomas was her name, you'd have to go back through quite a few entries to find the stuff I originally wrote about her. That's why a blog is like a dream...it's not linear, it keeps cycling back on itself in kind of a spiral. Like they teach you in the dream workshops back in the day. Or maybe now. Like at Edgar Cayce Institute or in Tuscaloosa somewhere in one of those fringe groups, which were the most fun because fringe is usually the most fun. And the smartest.

Usually.

SOUTHERN SEASONS

by Madge Hall Thomas

Spring plantin'

Smell of rich, clean earth rises

to the farmer's nostrils

And quickens the step and cheers

the plow-song.

Time of promise

and

Time of growing,

Spring down South.

Summer passin'

Burning sun scorches the

growing cotton plants.

Summer rains take their turn

in drowning them.

Time most changeable,

Ever unpredictable--

Summer down South.

Harvest comin'

Cotton pickers sing and gather

snowy bolls.

Cotton is the money crop--

Cotton is the very Life--

Cotton is the Southern king--

The highest praise--

The darkest Curse--

Cotton down South.

Nov. 1939

Apparently she was pretty politically astute, for a 17- or 18-year-old person.