“She wore native azaleas, tucked into her curls, I knew right away she was not like other girls.” Each autumn our ditches on our southeast Georgia dirt roads overflow with flowers. A blanket of reds and yellows and purples. It’s a magical time in a magical place. A living orchestra of purple flower stalks, each an exclamation of the season. To this direction <——-a splashing of mixed yellow flowers and in this direction ———> a hodgepodge of rabbit tobacco among mixed white flowers. This country is beautiful and wild and it doesn’t give you anything without taking a tax. In this case it’s sand spurs and i have the socks to prove it with 18 on one and 24 on the other but no one is keeping count. Gushworthy. Welcome to Gushville USA. The grand dame, the pine lily, in full ass regalia. The rabbit tobacco, the ancient medicinal herb used by the ancients. The sunflowers. The native azaleas. It’s a poem. A stand for wild places and wild people. For the flower punks.