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.