Monday, July 05, 2010
The Forgotten Road
The song of insects itched in the trees. The summer heat hung motionless. Like the moment between breaths. The sandy soil was the Earth's lungs, and the sun's rays, the blood's flow and ebb.
I wanted to sit and sleep in the steam. I wanted to rock on a porch and feel the seconds melt in soft beads of sweat. Running one at a time. One long trail at a time.
Why are there so many ghosts in the Spanish Moss? Why do so many walk in slithering heat along blacktop roads?
It can't just be me sitting in the shade.
It can't just be me in the June, or July, or August drifting days.
I imagine so many souls who could walk there. As the grass doesn't sway.
And probably often do.