Carolina   (I’m Coming Home)

Through weathered mountains with ancient echoes

         there’s a highway slung like a rope.

Where every autumn you can drive through fire

         the hills don’t die there, they explode

         into orange, crimson, and gold.

I’m coming home, back to Carolina

where the seeds of my best days are sewn.

And evening sings pine needle music.

Carolina, I’m coming home.

I’d cast my lines out into a graveyard

         where bloodshot mornings climb through the brine.

Where there’s a lighthouse that spirals upwards

         and a great dune where I’ve seen folks fly

         over coral and hurricane tides.

Chorus

I carved my name once into a memory

          beneath the bluest of bluest skies.

And every time I’m feeling nameless

          there’s an oak tree that will testify

          to where my best days will always lie.

Chorus