Two-lane Tennessee backroads
curve and dip through scrub pine and hickory,
past white budding dogwood, redbud,
pink and yellow late blooming azaleas,
small holdings, old barns, clusters of cows
and a single horse, a pen of pigs,
neat brick houses, then home to cousins,
a community of modular homes
perched on a hill,
vulnerable to high winds or tornados.
We hear storm warnings on the weather channel and
lie in bed, sleepless.
This little poem was written three days ago, when we were south of Nashville, visiting family.