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The sun rises in the south and sets there. East and west are refinements, dark and white wines we describe with migrating adjectives.

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Snow we can sled on hails from the south, riding the coast where we stare past the swells summers, holding our boards.

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Snow coats only the lane’s southern berms, the low, white hems of the Blue Ridge beyond. In Virginia, winter skirts all but the mountains.

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Winter’s a Southern belle. Her blue mountains swell like breasts beneath her trees’ sheer bodice.

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In outdoor chapels, the hymns are hers.

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Her drawl thickens like a casement around each word, like a darkroom’s development, like the tongue’s film.

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The Southern drawl: the flesh made word, the word made morpheme, the morpheme made phoneme, the phoneme made flesh.

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The mouth that says, smiles. It eats. It kisses.

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Winter’s green on winter’s terms. What I thought was grass was moss.

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I don’t know dormant from dead as a doornail.

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Death is both. It’s an abstract process & a concrete product. If time is a river, then death is a frozen fountainhead.

Photos from a hike on December 31 along the Appalachian Trail. “Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.