thirty-five years
the mountains and forests have
called loudly my name and I have tried
to follow their forceful
impetus running toward
looming hills looming woods
with leaps and strides
looming closer till
not one day
was less to me than inundating
discursive full of wonder
its pale dawn showing
through the curves of the fog
behind condensated windows
all the misted host of the Blue Ridge
thirty-five
and again this morning as always
I am freed as the thought comes forth
small yet delightful and I am feeling
that language
is not like a river
is not a tree is not mountains but
is the thing pulling them out of the void
wholly continually
from eternity and I
breathe back humble metered praise.
Hardscrabble 