I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed bosom
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;
til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue Crabs--
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.
Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.
That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.
I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.
So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming crabs before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.
I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.