Original source material
So we will have a child and finally give it this earth in its veins.
The craft and the small traumas that come of being young.
To think the world was more if we could only see.
The woods menacing and mountains full of monsters that die too soon.
Heady squeals that evaporate and we become…
That child will tramp and smell magnolias.
It will understand what grits are
And will open its mouth wide for ’I’.
Be south born of north,
Carry the whispers of the dead.
Will say ‘My Asheville.’
The child will not question where it is nor why the alphabet.
It will be a foreigner to me and you.
As is right.
What can it teach us of our adopted place?
What will it learn about home that I did not?
A golden souvenir in the sun of the antebellum that never was.