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Alison Scott
HOOTERVILLE

Protected by nature’s
tall and green standing soldiers,
warm and welcoming like an unpopulated
east coast morning shore.
Corners creep across six acres
of uncharted Florida jungle
overlooking the blue blanket that lay
at the base, plentiful, fresh, and alive.

Rain hits the earth like tiny fluid anvils
making craters in soft soil.
The screen door slams as I run to the shelter
of the dry front porch. The tin roof
and Heaven’s tears make rhythm
and beckon me to stay indoors, play, and sleep.

I pause before I open the door
that leads to a world unlike any other.
It is clear.
City life stops.
As my gaze is cast down the narrowing hall,
I am reminded this is the world
of Custard, Belleek, and Flow Blue glass.
Civil War furniture, Aunt Terry’s piano, and Grandma’s old books.
This is the world
where I rest.

Enter the doorway and this place becomes
Home. Musty book smell, cluttered shelves, breakables and all.
And when my city brain stops turning,
I look around and know one day I’ll be just like these books.

Here everything is antique, even the poodle.