Lime cotton balls
Fastened to branches
Or in the river.
Muddy banks
The Dogwoods
We throw sticks
Into the water and call it
Driftwood.
No real current,
So you stay for a while
The pines hide us in robes
down the back road
And the water is clear here
In the yellow days of April.
Our salt-stained wood
will coast South
Through Carolina creeks and
will hang as decorations
in Dora’s house.
You’ll ask to take a swim,
And our damp clothes will stain the
seats of your car
On the ride home.
But for now,
You have a bug on your neck
While you skip stones,
I sit there with dirt on my jeans
And we
drift