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?


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