We come to the lake and talk to the water
with stones we skim across her glassy surface,
As we dangle bare feet from the edge of the dock
our eyes scan her familiar coves,
looking for evidence
of our younger
selves.
We Come to the Lake
Dear July…,
Dear July,
We meet again.
Me? I’m a year older than the last time we spoke.
You? You never seem to change. For the most part, you’re still bright and sunny. A hot tamale for sure.
Me? I have a few more wrinkles in a few more places. Ironic that we can attribute some of that to you. Haha. No, really.Continue Reading
along the banks of Little River
Before pigweed and meth took root in our county, before tractors became smarter than people, when each town had a cotton gin and a courthouse square, vibrant and spirited, we were young.
Back then.
Before text messaging and likes and follows, before helicopter moms became a hovering, annoying thing, when farm-to-table meant suppertime—eat what’s served and don’t dare whine—we were kids.Continue Reading
