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St. Mary's
By Don Iannone

This is the place you catch the ferry
to the mysterious Cumberland Island,
It's a small town,
in Georgia, near the Florida line,
It's an old place, going back
to the Civil War and before,
People are friendly in St. Mary's,
more so than you'd think for a
shy backwater southern town,
Moss-covered trees drape the streets,
filtering the hot afternoon sun,
creating playful dancing shadows everywhere,
St. Mary's is quiet this warm spring afternoon,
Life seems to move in slow motion here,
like the ancient crippled black man ambling
across the wide sunny Main Street,
He takes his time,
maybe that is why he has lived so long,
The dark man's straw hat covers his eyes,
but you know they're there, watching you
as you watch him,
A wise determination is in his face,
somehow you know it's there, you feel it,
His hands are large and wrinkled,
like a leathered elephant's skin,
They clutch an old gnarled wooden cane
that might have belonged to his slave grandfather
during an earlier time,
White rocking chairs, weathered wooden swings,
and colorful gliders are everywhere,
reminding you that people take it easy here,
It makes you wonder: What's the hurry?
We drive through an old cemetery,
Time-worn gray and tan tombstones
dot the fresh-cut bright green grass,
A ceramic deer decorates the grave of William Sebring King,
who lived to be eighty-nine and must have loved animals,
A tiny old white Catholic Church catches our eye,
It's more of a chapel than a church,
The back and side yards are filled
with lovely red and yellow flowers,
St. Francis stands in the garden, holding a lamb,
Behind him are more shadows, these are silent,
There is more, but it must wait,
As we drive away, we agree we will come back.

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