... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... God ..., ... humor ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... pain ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... religion ..., ... the South ..., ... time ..., ... weed ..., ... written under the influence ...

when the river floods

early summer leaves curl with caterpillars
in the dancing rays of the muliebrous sunshine

“don’t coddle them Margaret, goddamn it,” he crooned;

and hastily flung a handful of the young worms
out across the road – left to land where fate may leave them.

“i love the soft, furry smell of their spines,” she mused,

bewildered at the dulcet tones that wiggled free
as the wind trickled through their gossamer haired backs.

“ah darlin’, you know that magic’s for the bright-eyed,” he sulked,

lost in the despairing dream that perhaps it all is,
in fact, just a dream given to push the old soul further down.

“ah darlin, you know that magic’s all i got.” she sang,

as the deluge of youth sprang from fountains deep within her heart,
she ran and gathered each caterpillar from the hot pavement.
her sons and daughters. a brood of fuzz.

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