Roots

A brief flow poem

Bumping spare keys through Maysville
A sticky-sweet, sweaty, standstill
The bills are mostly ghostly so I'm
Coasting here where the coast is the clearest
In the bright, heady, gloomof the nearest and dearest
To float low and soak where the host is sincerest
I love it here
I love it here
I love it here
The wind in the walnuts is breathing in my lungs
The birdsong in strange, sweet,and intimate tongues
I am a rivulet precipate of this trickling ground
The God-green, glowing, grow sound
Surrounds and astounds
It is mine, it is me, it is us, and our will
To sink roots in good ground
To grow and be still