Noble Sabals
Johnclarestokes
Once we danced where sabal palms now sway
Cruising up to tops of hills we went all the way
down
Some beyond the water tower toward
Bronson's barren hills of scrub and sand
Others past the eastern other side of tracks
To Spook hills ghost light chills
A few to the Blue Grotto's air bubbles wending upward
from divers in caves suspending
One of many bravely trespassing to skinny dip in
Dens of Devils beneath watermelons
No Tiny or Gene or Luther's Lord calling could keep us
from Jackie and the boys in the band at the top of the hill after football
That certain kind of light
That shone on us
From the towers Christmas lights so innocently knowing all silently glowing on Friday nights
The sabal palms forever swaying.
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