It is as if I can almost still remember. As if I once perhaps belonged here. The mountains a deep heavy green, and The rocky steep drop to the waters below. The peaked roofs, the white-plastered Brick. A clothesline in a neighbor’s yard Made of sticks. The stone path skimming The ridge. A ladder asleep against a house. What is the soul allowed to keep? Every Birth, every small gift, every ache? I know I have knelt just here, torn apart by loss. Lazed On this grass, counting joys like trees: cypress, Blue fir, dogwood, cherry. Ageless, constant, Growing down into earth and up into history.
