Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Ride Home

South of Cahas, toward Roanoke
Home was the little city north of here,
still is, in a way.

But the ride to real home
goes through hidden mountain draughts
known perhaps to the hiker,
the farmer,
and to Mahala the Totero.
Not to all.

See the rises,
she whispers.
Hear the dancers on the wind.
Press your toes soft into moss-blackened

North, busy-ness, livelihood.
To the mountains south,
finding of stones,
cream richened by the never-failing
secrets, shhh.
We know.

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