The air hangs heavy
Over all who linger there.
The soft whine of honeybees
And the curious questions
Drift over the morning like new butterflies.
The trickling fountain spills itself over
The carved marble plaques
Bearing each year of his short life.
Inside the little clapboard church
We sit,
Trying to imagine a little
Blonde-haired boy
Sitting enraptured in the very first row.
Now up the front steps
Of the whitewashed shotgun shack
Where father, mother, and boy
Shared one bed, two rooms, and three shares
Of a single piece of bread.
The floor is worn thin where many
Feet have walked, and the mirror above
The dresser is cracked and dull with age.
And in the kitchen, beside the rusted ice box,
Stands a straightbacked high chair,
Where once sat a doe-eyed, crooked-mouthed
Toddler who could not have imagined
What life might hold for him
One day.
All the other houses that called this one
"Neighbor"
Have gone, replaced by hills and trees, and
A little grove where a statue of
Their thirteen-year-old hero stands,
Guitar in hand.
The bronzed figure has been captured
Midstride,
His ever-watching eyes fixed just ahead,
Watching the little chapel
Which bears his name, where inside a
Soul can sit, rest, and wrap themselves
In the voice that echoes within these walls.
This is a place of peace.
This is a place for saying hello.
This is where I come to experience
The extraordinary.
This
Is Tupelo.
