To Childhood Heathens Who Grew Up

Frost rimes the trees like the Queen Anne’s Lace that grew alongside the holler roads in June,

on the hazy afternoons when we had no place to be, no ends in sight, on the winding one-lane, old paved roads where we took flight.

Bike pedals slapping shin bones when we hit the hills just right,

free descent, lungs too strained for our squeals of delight,

we have always been wild and strange

creatures who wandered the Appalachian hills but sought a broader horizon.