Carly Jean
Carly Jean
Where sunrises meant home
and freedom slid off a boat
turned upside-down,
fishing lines and bare toes
interrupted waters called the Sound;
I wonder what the sound
of their voices were as children,
sisters in gowns of ribbons,
satin colors pulled
from wreaths of remembrance.
That is what they wore,
while folded cotton sat
in crooks of trees,
while children were children,
sisters were sisters.
The comfort of flat land,
sandy meshed soil and pine trees,
the smell of salt and
summertime, and stories of
when 4H was $14 and steep.
and freedom slid off a boat
turned upside-down,
fishing lines and bare toes
interrupted waters called the Sound;
I wonder what the sound
of their voices were as children,
sisters in gowns of ribbons,
satin colors pulled
from wreaths of remembrance.
That is what they wore,
while folded cotton sat
in crooks of trees,
while children were children,
sisters were sisters.
The comfort of flat land,
sandy meshed soil and pine trees,
the smell of salt and
summertime, and stories of
when 4H was $14 and steep.
Oh if I were the Sound,
I would put the jewels
of orange 6 am’s in a jar like fireflies;
I would weave the color
of those cemetery ribbons
through these notebook lines,
onto these pages
so I can tell folks who
ask for my name that
I heir’d it honest.
I would put the jewels
of orange 6 am’s in a jar like fireflies;
I would weave the color
of those cemetery ribbons
through these notebook lines,
onto these pages
so I can tell folks who
ask for my name that
I heir’d it honest.
Happy birthday Jean. <3
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