the beauty of a folkway sometimes
(i am the radical entranced by the fundamentalists)
serenely to me singing
(beauty in harsh life)

i am passionate child of mountain bliss,
do you see me softly swaying in the dark of the moon
before the fall of the feather to the ground?
do you hear me, kissing the dew of my existence -
and into the rough cracks of my lips seeps the cool which to your lips
i carry tenderly, like a child
to ease you. 

in the knotted trees i curl my spine
i become the oldness of the earth i am forever displaced and implanted in one
nothing is the supreme when the moss is the floor.
feeling the coldness of wet at night on my toes, i shiver.
three more miles 'til home.
(i smile at the moon to reassure her)

the mandolin keeps on humming
though my mother's uncle died three winters ago
the store is closed down since mr atkins died and his widow went over the mountain
but i'm twisted into the soil now
and i'm never to let go

my fierce mountain fire won't let me come down

03/31/2003

Posted on 04/01/2003
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