The view through the back window,

behind the pine pew and the elders chairs,

holds more than mere memory.

It’s that old Live Oak does it.

Its thinner branches whisper

like moaning ghosts in midnight breezes.

Right convenient it was,

growing old with the town,

spreading shade across the back yard

and the towns outdoor meeting place

and the graves where old heroes rested,

peaceful, after their last charge.

And from its thicker branches

was hung a hateful harvest

while so many watched

those peculiar, outdoor entertainments.

Well,

thank the loving Lord

we don’t hold to those ways no more.

But it was, I was told,

a fine place for a lynching.

Now my grandchild swings

on an old, painted, white tire,

synched tight to an upper limb.

But the creaks of his stretched rope

harmonize with echos of those older ones,

once those men ceased their twitching.

And the giggle of my joyful grandchild

reminds me, some, of my Daddy’s chuckle

when he’d come home,

late, some nights,

stomp his work boots clean of mud,

wash his hands to lose some splotches of blood.

His britches he’d give a slight unbuckle,

sit down in his chair at the head of our table

so to whisper the tale of his

evening enterprise….

I think of them days

whilst sitting in my family’s pew,

staring out the window at that grand old tree.

Listening to our preacher

preach on Jesus and love

for the neighbors in our vicinity.

Those memories take their toll on me.

I shudder,

sometimes,

deep down in my soul.