Go back to the lime tree where it all began,
carved our names, we never want to admit it.
For the flashing black clouds, trying to fight. Rain,
craving comfort from the ceiling of trees
electricity longing to reach through some
nylon fabric. Lesson one: welcome hotels.
Sun glow, we spin through the Blue Ridge tunnels
eyes on core seeds, gold, grasping hot.
Barriers of atmosphere tip the peaks
they point to the yellow orb, then nothing is the same.
I am made of calcite dripping on the floor
of the world’s largest cave. Now that the mountain
and I cleanse our hands in twisting rivers,
we see the veins of this country flowing through.