I'm seizing with anticipation, with heart so full of longing
it's creaking past the walls and rolling into the world.

Deep Southern soil you are full of musty lines of fine laced
literature. Old stories with wide smiles and deep lines in their foreheads. You can smell the rain, the warm air so full of drops you could bathe on a sunny day. The dirt is red and never leaves once it's warmed to your skin, deep Alabama clay, rich Southern color. Ink that writes the lives of dogwoods and the Big Old Oak Tree.

And the green so alive, the kudzo could lace around your toes in the afternoon, and hide you forever by the evening. That's how alive the color is, saturates your stories with wild things in the grass.

Voices are slow and easy, speak stories that could pull you to sleep and hold you in dreams for years. Beautiful stories, voices with time in their drawl and character in their articulation. Voices that never tell a lie, just stories longer than the Saugahatchee and taller than the pine trees.