The church-bells in Virginia remind me of the fig trees, turning hourly and purple in the heat of a guileless and prodigal summer.
Whatever the inverse of a flower really is, with the soul in it's mortal coils or a dead wasp
Trying to break out and sweetening itself in the process
So that when you bite into the soft, seedy, sappy little bell and the honey drips down your tongue with all the perfections of the Age of Moses with it.
The ringing brings in the dolphins and their careless chatters
All as I marinate myself in the old colonial salty waters of the Chesapeake Bay with all the crabs and their remarkable sense of eternity that everything raised by the ocean has been embedded with since the day that they were born.
The stinging that accompanies my many bug bites while standing in the ocean feels like a baptism or exorcism, letting the salt burn away anything with the semblance of being terrestrial.
Fiddlers sway as the
Marsh elders and tall grasses
Drink the salt and pray
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