Highways

Oh, how I hate the interstate,

the dull cadence of conformity

stretching miles into the gray.

Give me a two-lane sunbleached blacktop

winding through the woods,

old growth trees spreading themselves

into the sky, magnolia leaves smacking the windshield,

shedding the rainwater clinging to the green,

dancing it across my windshield

like a song.

Elevation dropping, crossing bridges kissing rivers

humidity thick in the summer air, a balmy beachy feeling

making my blood sing of Charleston, live oaks kicking up sidewalks and cobblestone streets,

roots climbing out of the earth into the city, tripping oblivious strollers stumbling in and out of the dream.

Backwards through time, into old growth forests, ancient oak and cypress sighing their green relief into my skin and lungs,

this fortress built by earth herself breathing my bones, calling the tide of my blood,

truer than moonbeams: branch, not bracken,

with hawks, not gulls. Fresh water flowing through wetlands down to the sea.