The sun rises in the south and sets there. East and west are refinements, dark and white wines we describe with migrating adjectives.
Snow we can sled on hails from the south, riding the coast where we stare past the swells summers, holding our boards.
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.
Winter’s a Southern belle. Her blue mountains swell like breasts beneath her trees’ sheer bodice.
In outdoor chapels, the hymns are hers.
Her drawl thickens like a casement around each word, like a darkroom’s development, like the tongue’s film.
The Southern drawl: the flesh made word, the word made morpheme, the morpheme made phoneme, the phoneme made flesh.
The mouth that says, smiles. It eats. It kisses.
Winter’s green on winter’s terms. What I thought was grass was moss.
I don’t know dormant from dead as a doornail.
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.