by Earl J. Wilcox
Walking bare foot in our back yard wet from dew,
we survey our fifty-foot kingdom, where zesty
zinnias, scrawny marigolds coexist in a sunny spot.
The flowers--- with equal fertilizer, encouraging words
---remind us of an ongoing oncology concern
roiling about South Carolina’s spiritual health.
Revolutionaries have coexisted here for more
than three hundred years. Our landscape is
littered or decorated—depending on one’s view
of history---with battle sites and cemeteries.
Markers stake out gardens of hallowed ground.
A new revolutionary battle cry is heard in our
land: an ultra-conservative religious cult signals
its intent to invade, take control of the citizenry.
If this rapturous revolution explodes,
will our morning rituals be altered, can
we still choose sunny spots for planting,
walk unfettered among lush grass, hearty
or puny plants? Such trivial catechism is not
preached lightly by these heaven bounders
seeking to convert our population. In their
theology, Sundays may be only for church
going---no more back yard worship, sipping
pinot grigio, praising marigolds and zinnias.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
