red clay beneath my nails
in the dry cracks of my wintered hands,
feels like I'm holding Georgia,

I hope they all grow strong.
I hope there are no "losers."
I hope there is a chance that I will get to see them grow older,

Is the future really a place of
concrete skies, brittle streets, and Wallstreet highs,
or can I just make my nest up in the mighty giant?