From Water Ways and God's Ways on Saint Simons Island:


White flashes of feathers

flit overhead.

Salt teases the nostrils.

Spray flicks the rocks at my feet.

A deep-seated wooden chair

fills in for God’s arms

and the sea breeze

His caressing hand.

Tensions flee


His comforting touch.

From Sunlit Memories at Grandma's House:


Grandma’s kitchen spun afternoon sunlight

off pastel blue walls

and white metal cabinets.

Newly cleaned glass windows broke

the lawn into four green squares

where stood the old dinner bell

used to call the men in from the fields

for the noonday meal.

Today, Grandma stood in front of the stove

stirring a pot of fresh blackberries

for our suppertime cobbler.

Steam rose and matted wisps of white hair

to her forehead, and her cotton dress

hung limp.

Skin draped from her thin arms as she leaned forward

to peer into a bubbling pot.

On the floor behind her stood a metal fan purring

as it swung from side to side pushing heat

around the room and out the hallway door.

The scent of biscuits baking rose from the oven

with the heat and swirled out the door

to mewing kittens outside the screened porch.

Bottles of amber gold freshly squeezed

from rows of honey bee boxes stood on

the formica-topped, metal-legged table.

The blue and white streaked linoleum floor felt

cool to my bare feet.

Grandma glanced at me and asked,

“Child, are you hungry?”

I nodded.

She smiled and said,

“I thought so. They don’t cook these kind of meals

in the city, do they?”

“No, ma’am.”

I sat on a stool and watched,

learning about cooking and patience and beauty.