Jun 6, 2017
poem: wormsloe
behemoth live oaks towering above, with beads of sweat running down my neck, we vacillate between now and then.
crabs scuttling on the sandy beach at low tide, spanish moss draping gracefully over perfectly crooked tree limbs…
fresh, fragrant, pioneer-era rosemary -my one souvenir aside from tons of smiles- ready for an age-old chicken dinner.
her cacophonous cackle coming from up front - music to my ears, a symphony of sorts - juxtaposition in its highest form.