My pulse set the speed limit, quickly,
now, the mountains of Appalachia eating
at us, eroding our sleepy eyefuls of sun,
plucking at the hairs on my neck, those rocks.
(I sang the mountain song about hills and flora
and oomp-de-ah-dah.)
The chill air was fatal, but early yet
a nice shiver was all I could afford.
The sky would increase in ardor
and blush another cerulean any
eye-popping second now, and the scent
of the flowers on the roadside drove me
mad in Maytime, and as I was only
eight years old and a writer for two, I
can not remember how to hold onto that
a little longer.