Willow oaks melting into sidewalks,propagating grass with daylong jokes,or, listen, the American holly alivewith robins flitting quicksilver throughperpetual shadow as gray foxes set offthe rainstick music of pine needles,repeating Civil War betrayals on the wind,all that undying Gothic covering fieldsof potatoes and strawberries, the antiseptictruth burns like an oil refinery in Sanford,there redbuds burst into sudden flame,announcing spring is finally south,even though the rain, Sweet Jesus,ain’t really raining, only the worldgets heavier with blood echoing the clotblossoms of crape myrtles, clouding,mournful with the everlasting hum of bees,echoing the highway traffic climbingup Pilot Mountain, mulch murmurvanishing completely like last season’swildfire that seared propheticthrough shortleaf pines, leaving behind,undetonated, a biblical mass of conesset deep in their revenant sleep, which hereis history becoming nature, rushing towardruin, a place frozen in time to specterdreams…