Palmetto Grove Poem by Peter Black

Where the ground is littered with pine needles;
Scoped: some dried brown; others still living green
Bendy strings; when chewed have an orange taste,
Cushion feet towards a forgotten place,
Past the tall waving pines, whose branches sway,
In rhythm with the wind; move side to side,
With thin necked and elderly thick barked oaks,
Dropping a fruitful rain of white acorns,
Onto beds of tanned, tannin, sun stained leaves,
Is the dense unchanging Palmetto Grove,
That sucks up moisture turning sand stark white;
Millions of many fingered waving hands,
Tempt and beckon to the curious man,
Whispering of a primordial age,
Among the breeding cicadas buzzing;
Where you have no face and forget your name,
Seeing only five feet in front of you—
Soon lose yourself in the Palmetto Grove,
In the infernal cicadas humming.