On just such a rainy day,
thick with mist
soft in air,
turning my valley
shades of blue
and of green
that go beyond any
words in my head.
Cerulean, maybe
Bottle green but
warmer, thicker,
softer in the infant
shades of cinnamon fern
and the first tiny palms
of tulip poplar.
But, no, older than that
Old like the Indian mounds
aching with grass
that we pass on the
main road to town.
Old like campfires
and strong mountain women
gathering nuts to
feed their children.
Like dinosaurs even.
Like music, it is --
hundreds and hundreds
years worth of music,
rising together,
called by the rain
from the depths of these red hills.
I stand at their feet,
the tall wet grass
soaking my skirt
clinging to my bare legs
until I have to tug
to make it let go.
But for now,
I let it cling.
Looking down
my sandals are gritty
with soil, looking
as much a part
of the burr-weed
and star-eyed asters
as two feet of clay.
Looking up
beyond the soaring
incline of glowing
rain-drenched greenery
up to where the cotton
clouds rend and sky
comes through, though
you can scarcely tell
it for the sun, ribboning
down in lemonade rays,
looking as much a part
of heaven as Daniel
and his sea of glass.
There is a verse --
you've heard me
quote it before --
in the Psalms of David
(the ruddy shepherd-poet)
that talks of God
reaching down
and at His touch,
the mountains smoke.
I know this
I live it.
Standing here, with
the blue mist around
my ankles, I pray.
If You would touch
these mountains,
Lord, if you know
the stars by name,
If I mean more to you
than the sparrows
that sing so sweet
You would not
forget me here,
beneath the pines?
[mine - no copying]
1 comment:
Go Sara and Mary Beth!
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