here I am again daddy,
alone in the garden,
stepping my way through
the brambles and shambles
left behind by the storm.

father says that it was a large one,
he says that it was a big one, daddy does,
picking up the pieces of promise
left to languish on the road
in this part of Georgia.

funny old storm, made by men,
‘lil ‘ol angels in blue,
well, maybe not so little, true,
they come in, spittin’ lightning,
blowin’ our house down.

little pieces of home, of life,
a panorama of effortless strife
strewn across an acre of ground
once so brown and dusty
in this musty ‘ol town.

gotta pick up the pieces, father says,
says dust yourself off, he does,
angels be showering down this day,
like old men falling down
a flight of stairs,
but that didn’t kill ‘em.

oh no, oh no, father says,
says devil come and get ‘em, daddy does,
says they died like momma in the rain,
says they died of fright,
in pain.