The
wind that blows up from the midnight valley is warm and smells of honeysuckle;
the stars are glowing dark like pencil shavings. Oh my sweet Carolina, welcome
to the velvet times, the ferns and bees, the driving with the windows down, the
molasses months of lemonade, the sugared times, the candied hours, crisp and
spicy sweet.
Welcome
to Graceland; welcome to the battlefield; welcome to the age of innocence and
the shedding of guilt. Welcome to the afternoons of keeping secrets and the
evenings of sharing them, the mystery of bruises, the reinvention of the
balcony and its bars, the smoky blue view.
Come
down to the riverside, and welcome it yourself: set down your sword, beat it
into a spoon, and eat of the honey tree. The bees are baring their teeth and
drawing near only to return home, walking through the cemetery, speaking to the
tombstones, this great cloud of witnesses: the ground thrums with their
heartbeats, a great cloud of birthdays.
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