I traveled from clear western sky to ramble through your syrup air.

My yellow cotton dress is thrown out like a sheet against my thighs…

When I step onto your cobblestones, my pulse rises.  I feel shiny.

The summer dark carries in laughter from the sea to the street.

My hair light from hours ago saltwater, brown skin smoothed from the sand, I stand in your market.

As you round my jagged edges,

I’m talking with a man on a tangent about the quadrivium.

Later, we’ll yacht watch

You’ll bring us some old wine

After I devour this blue plate of shrimp and grits.

Thankfully, there are no mountains here to climb!

Eat ’em here in Charleston!

Pralines don’t taste the same on Pikes Peak.