So Much South Carolina Still in Me

I'm not romanticizing

well maybe just a tad

No! Not really this is how

South Carolina is for me

Even with flat tires

a sick little doggie

an oil light coming on and off like

an intermittent warning

No, it isn't romanticizing when

I see the stirring of the wind on the treetops

as I watched the speckled bird or

see the muddy waters of the marshes

whose green and golden reeds clumped for miles

with dark green trees for a back drop

and Harriet Tubman's bridge just where

the boat drops and

I ready to sit and

dangle my feet if it weren't for

this city demanding I come home

No it isn't romanticizing

when I walk on the pine bristles matting the ground

and smell the clean air or

when the air is cool

and I brush against the old Spanish moss

growing even on a young bush

How is that, really?

Or as I collect the leaves of my youth

or listen to dear friends tell me their stories

and as they listen to mine and

we think of the future

and imagine it grand

and we laugh

we plan

we pray

we fix what is broken

we mend our fences

and we laugh as we look

at the black shutters

and lovely galleries

and gardens

cobblestone streets and steeples

hoping to see each other again soon

There is still so much South Carolina

in me

I wonder why?