Where the wildflowers grow.

Where the wildflowers grow,
Towards the sunlight,
In fleets of vibrant colors,
Encapsulated in early evening dew.
Within grasp, the late afternoon,
Sun dropping off,
Behind trees,
We walk to the farmer’s stand,
Holding hands,
With night starting to move.
Air is heard two seconds,
Before caressing our skin.
Among chirping insects,
Kneel to worship,
The canvas of pink,
Warm yellows and greens,
Violets,
Grouped in couples of twos.
Skies and clouds peeking through,
Off a quiet, dirt road, a,
Scene from down South,
Carolina blues.

Romanced by the South.