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BACKROADS
When you drive on back roadsyou develop a differentsense of direction, of place.You know you’re in the Southby the trees, Spanish mosshanging like heavy rainand stealing the leavesof smaller trees, andall manner of thingshanging from or affixedbetween trees, a tire swing,something passing for a hammockand endless clotheslinesannouncing that herethe seasons are measuredby rainfall and temperaturesthat…
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OF THE SEASONS
In the heart of winter, then,which seemed unendingI would stare out at the maplesbarren branches piledin ever tottering snowand dream of palm treesand a warm ocean breeze. In heart of winter now,such as it is, all I seeare endless palms andmany Southern Live Oaks,their branches piledunder a heavy burdenof sagging Spanish Mossand I dream of…
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an old writer and his words 