Mountain Solitude - 02/15/09

Rock and stone bulging from hard packed core,
creating a pock marked, marble colored face,
stubbled grasses, bushes, trees clinging, clasping
to dirt filled pores forming patchwork aging skin.
Together we become a bluish globe viewed far away,
so my face would lift to you.

Inches from where I sit it is all bones and mass.
Further down all molten liquid core and fiery heat.
Places I imagine, but where I can not go
lest I set off cataclysmic storms beyond control,
like reaching into farmhouse stoves to grab at coals,
so my face would lift to you.

Squalling birds cry lonely mating calls to distant ears,
while creatures scurry past my shoes with determined
purposes known only to some great insistence.
The larger animals keep wary distance, their ears alert,
nervy messengers skittering impulses from a greater mind,
so my face would lift to you.

A tiny gathering of chipping birds flock 'round my table,
beggars searching for the crumbs they pray will drop,
needs and longings overcome their fear and dread,
one drops a seed pod on my book and briefly smiles,
I thank him for his little gift and the greater gift of Love,
so my face would bow to you.

Vision Never Had

I wish I had seen my birthday cake
when I was five and laughing
at the taste of frosting on my tongue,
but so very, very blind.
I wish I had seen Dad’s face
when he sat on the tractor
and held me on his lap,
I felt him smile then
through the warmth of his arms,
guessing he loved me
by the gentleness of his touch,
but I would have liked to see
the love in those deep set eyes,
that are foggy black in my memory.
I wish I had seen the tornado cloud
that swept the corn crib
from its concrete foundation,
wafting it away to Vandy’s farm,
landing it perfectly intact,
but a mile down the road.
I remember the sucking silence
just before it struck
and the hideous howl of the wind
that announced its devastating rage,
but I never saw it coming.
I remember smelling dark loaved bread
baking in the wood stove oven.
It lingers still in some long lost lobe,
racing to my memory at a moment’s call,
but I would love to have seen
the butter dripped slices
Mom placed on one of the saucers
she got from saving Green Stamps,
and looking through the S&H catalog.
I remember the piercing pain
when I touched the stove grating
she always told me not to touch,
but I would like to have seen
the blistered puffing redness
that became the whitened scar
I wear fifty years later.
I wish those blurry memories
would straighten up their act
and show themselves,
instead of hiding in the mist.