Memories of 1963



The crop was heavy that year.

The rain had come in torrents

and then left.

Green stalks and dried mud

became an endless blanket of white.

It was the beautiful land of cotton

under our blue October sky.



The pickers all stood in line,

lean men with hungry eyes.

Loads of sacks and sweat

sat waiting to be weighed and paid.

Mama kept her eye on a rusty scale,

paying bill by bill, saying to the best,

Thank you. Come again tomorrow.



Daddy loaded the trucks for the gin.

Bales will pile high, he said.

Will be a good year, he said.

Christmas is dead ahead, he said.

The one thing we never saw coming

was a nation swelled with grief

in the too soon November