BY AARON QUINN
Back where the pines rained sap
and the rain brought manna,
there is room for the grasshopper
and fluttering wings of the June Bug.
The moonshine flowed before it was legal
and fried okra was always hot on the stove
after all the hands were washed.
The kids ran without shoes,
papa shot the gun in the hayfield,
and boys chased the girls for fun.
Tomatoes big enough to fit in the hands of gods,
bright candy red, gushed during sticky summer nights
while the grasshopper jumps in the overgrown grass.
Time is slow back where the pines rain sap
and the words were slower while the lake rippled waves
that carried the sons and daughters into July afternoons.