Native country–

the words tumble from my mouth wild and free,

as if I’ve been loosed from an untamed place.

 

Native country–

where oak trees grow and wait for new spring light

before they release last year’s life,

where cotton field stubble bristles against the woody earth.

 

Native country–

where mouths move in slow rhythms

and embrace each next word–

a seamless connection of thought and time.

 

Native country–

where memories collect like mud puddles

on the gravel drive where the child I was

kneels in the rain, trying to dam up the ever-widening river.

 

 

—————————————————–

Native country–

the words tumble from my mouth wild and free,

as if they’ve been loosed from an untamed place.

 

Native country–

where oak trees grow and wait for new spring light

before they release last year’s life,

where cotton field stubble bristles against the woody earth.

 

Native country–

where mouths move in slow rhythms

and embrace each next word–

a seamless connection of thought and time.

 

Native country–

where memories collect like mud puddles

on the gravel drive where the child I was

kneels in the rain, trying to dam up the ever-widening river.

 

Now I am out of this place

and it has become the foreign place where I acclimate to

the old newness, the familiar

 

 

 

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