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Resting Appalachia

January 29, 2013

I live easily under the shade

of among the oldest of the elder mountains,

dozing lightly with the forest as the Sun rises

over nothing particularly new; I coast

down the middle Way, driving into town

in the morning through a Land of the Sky

wrought in blue smoke and fog, soft peaks;

a happy town and friendly folks.

My mind drifts with the deep cumulus

and winds around ridges with the Parkway,

gaining glimpses from the road of the valley,

imagining the clerk or the mechanic on the porch

in the mornings, on the far hill, listening to the breeze

before or after Church, his stomach full of sermon and coffee,

his mind moving with and beyond his eyes and as they list

across the far slopes, reflecting the sunlight that warms his skin

and reminds him of the Lord.

On the far side of the mountain lies the mountain city

of Asheville, wonderful cesspool of sin and art.

“Blessed are the peacemakers” is nowhere in mind

for the curving urban dancer and her dreaded weave

as she strives a little too much to empty her mind

of righteousness and ambition, unknowingly

trying to be a little more like that clerk or mechanic.

Divided by space, they each sway under the Milky Way,

bathing in ancient atmosphere, sharing space and time,

and living as neighbors, sleeping

against the same slopes.

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From → Poetry

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