Big city full of people,
fire and people,
and walking through streets finding
coins by the way.

Coins, little pieces of life. The means
that make up our masterpieces.
The moments that build to our entire lives.

Made by pennies and nickels we cast away.
But what if we saved them, oh if we saved them and oh if we gave them away
what needs we could meet, what lives we could create.

Just some copper here, some nickel there.
And then the walls would crash down on wall street,
we'd swim in manna
and a such a broad smile would sit
on the face of a city no longer hungry.

Oh if we saved them, oh if we gave them away,
those little coppers, little nickels,
the coins that make up our lives.

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.

There are no poetic words for this.

I'm worried for him, sick over him. I woke up at 4:30 this morning to screaming and thumps. It sounded like a brawl, one wall over. It shook me up, I texted him, but no response. Twenty minutes later it died down and I drifted back into sleep littered with uneasy thoughts and incoherent screams.

Went over this morning and asked what happened, if he remembered? He barely did, but it was something about too much alcohol and someone making him angry. Some girl, some alcohol. There's a pit in my stomach and I am worried, so worried. He's leaving for L.A. in two days. With no plan, just a guitar and some sort of passion.

He said he hasn't had a tantrum like that since he found You. Since he believed You were good. I don't understand what he's trying to escape from, why he slinks to the car everyday to smoke it out. Why he won't spend time with us but runs to people that, well, that I've seen no good come from.

I'm not his mother, not his girlfriend, not his answer, not his savior, but Yeshua I'm frightened for him. This summer may force him to face who he is and what he wants, but I'm terrified it will be at the expense of his safety, his well being. We all have to learn our lessons, run until we can't take a step without falling, sit in our shit, and eventually crawl away from it. I get that, but sometimes it doesn't have to be so painful and sometimes we don't have to fall so hard.

It's just a city I know little of but dark roads, and he knows nothing of but opportunity.

I tried to be his answer, but you're his answer. Be His answer, please.