National Poetry Writing Month - Day 20
In Lone Whistle Holler, the trees drop branches low. They got rheumy-root fingers and leaf mouths that glow. The moon is a screamer. The night lives till it dies. The wind steals yer name as you saunter on by.
A child once whistled. Them woods whistled back. Now what’s hung from that branch is a brown, burlap sack. Don’t open it up. Don’t ya dare take a peek. What’s rotting inside’ll turn ya white as a sheet.
The birds here all speak Latin and make nests of torn satin.
The crick runs bright red at high noon.
Should you fall asleep in the milk thistle glen…you might wake up wearing another person’s skin!
So if you must come, bring whisky and sage. Bring what’s fit for the ever hereafter. And make sure yer ears are stuffed with pink salts so ya cain’t hear the trees’ taunts and their laughter.