by Margaux Novak
North Carolina sticks
to my insides
like hot corn grits.
My vagabond existence belying,
the muddy smell of salt marsh
I hope for in other sandy shores.
But love, I need to lie down
nose deep in those bluegrass blades
wrap my arms around a whole
hillside— tiny white dogwood flowers
above like stars, catching
crickets that sing me home
at the bottom of a summer’s night
chirping the sun down
into amber, then payne’s grey.
This way my heart gathers itself at dusk,
dissipates, a last earth smell; lonely gust.
[Check out Margaux’s back porch wisdom]
