FOLK DANCE

FOLK DANCE

My dear man, you remind me of the old country,
Of my mother drying her hands by the fire,
The good old tent revival, the preacher and the choir.

You remind me of the scent of homemade bread,
Of fresh cotton sheets on a freshly made bed.

The aroma of the good life thrills me to the bone.
My dear man, it’s because of you, you and you alone.
The river it baptizes, our love a precious stone.

And you remind me of the evening star,
That spreads its brightness near and far.

Of rainy nights in front of the fire,
The winter of my deep content,
The throbbing pulse of my desire.

You remind me of good old fashioned holidays,
Of a better time and place,
Of when the world belonged to me,
A soldier in a sacred space.

My dear man, you remind me of the folklore,
Of some gallant place I have been before,
A place where memories are stored,
The cider jug, the tambourine,
The mouth harp and the washboard.

The folks who danced their troubles
Beyond the farthest mountaintop,
A great and glorious harvest,
A picture perfect crop.

You remind me of the lonesome oak,
The oxen and the yoke,
The graveyards in the moonlight,
Of those that fought the good fight.

My dear man, you remind me
Of some longed for ancient home.

And I long so to be baptized,
In the scent of your cologne.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED