There Are No Verdicts To

To Describe Our Growing Up In The Lowcountry Of South Carolina, I Would Have To Take You To The Marsh On A Spring Day, Flush The Great Blue Heron From Its Silent Occupation, Scatter Marsh Hens As We Sink To Our Knees In Mud, Open An Oyster With A Pocketknife And Feed It To You From The Shell And Say, 'there. That Taste. That's The Taste Of My Childhood.'

Craziness Attacks The Softest Eyes And Hamstrings The Gentlest Flanks.

Like Everything Else, Love's Not Worth Much Without Some Action To Back It Up.

The Children Of Warriors In Our Country Learn The Grace And Caution That Come From A Permanent Sense Of Estrangement.

The Safe Places Could Only Be Visited; They Could Only Grant A Momentary Intuition Of Sanctuary. The Moment Always Came When We Had To Return To Our Real Life To Face The Wounds And Grief Indigenous To Our Homr By The River.