CAROLINA DREAMIN'

When I was young and had an imaginary friend
I would draw little circles on her skin with my finger,
And she would giggle, making dust fly
Warm and sweet like dark powdered sugar.

We would sit for hours, styling her blades of green hair,
With my toes kneading patches of flowery clover,
And if a strange word blew in on a foreign breeze
She would decipher it in the soft stirring of oak branches.

And we would run, to all the places I'd never known--
Soaring castles of vining kudzu,
Great deltas that formed after a rain,
Magic labyrinths of spiders' floss.

We talked of love and sunshine,
We sang on swings and rocked on porches,
We prayed for the ants on the sidewalk
And the weeds in the cracks that they crossed.

And though I grew older and our visits drew shorter
I still wrote songs to her,
Massaged her tired blacktop backbone and shoulders
At 60 miles-per-hour, I fanned away the heat.

She'd had her sorrows and wrongs,
Like any friend, at times she disappointed me--
Great statues stood their guiltful watch
While an old friend quietly forgave.

I came to know more of her,
And as those miles stretched between us
I remembered the newfound joy of our pretend places,
Of the magical jaunts born of endless afternoons.

Whether she pushed me or I pulled away
I can never entirely be sure--
We'd belonged together, now grown apart,
And I left without saying goodbye.

I got a letter from her this week,
She sounded stressed out, fed up, worn down--
Her words held a harshness unfamiliar to me,
A crossness evident with each phrase.

I barely recognized the photograph,
Deep lines divided a once bright face--
Wrinkles wrought from rage,
Freckles founded in fear.

I wanted to tell her it was a phase,
Aging, perhaps the function of false alliances,
I wanted her to believe that the circle would come round
As it had when I'd traced it so long ago.

I reminded her of the coolness of her soil,
The calm that lies just beneath the burning,
Of the sharp crackle of stepping on acorns
Like the babble of new baby trees.

And as I wrote, I could almost smell sweetgrass,
Feel the tickle of ants on my toes,
Hear the purr of lawnmower engines,
And see the soft glow of lightning bugs.

I told her that those vines which seemed to choke
Also grew, arms outstretched
Bringing power poles to life
And drawing filigree over their lines.

She had attended the deaths of injustices
And been present for the birth of dreams--
Every tear joined her rivers,
Each cast stone, mountains built.

I asked her to believe she still had beauty,
That a gracefulness remained,
And I wished for her a civility
Which only empathy brings.

Never before had we to mention,
In all those years we'd shared,
That faith and politicians
Should somehow be compared.

I included a great old picture--
I'm ten, honeysuckle in my mouth,
With a train passing by behind me
Slowly stitching up the South.