Whispers Beneath the Southern Shade"

Beneath old oaks in charcoal night,
The porches breathe in dappled light.
Iron railings curl like time-worn lace,
Guarding secrets in quiet grace.
Vines have climbed where stories sleep,
And roots remember what walls keep.

A path of cracks and memories worn,
Leads past houses hushed and torn.
Shutters slant like tired eyes,
Watching ghosts of lullabies.
No color here—just truth in gray,
Where shadows walk and branches sway.

This sketch, though still, begins to hum—
A southern hymn, soft and undone