Mountain Home
That husband I left gave me Ripton.
This farm daughter of the wide Champlain Valley
Had viewed mountains from afar.
To be sheltered by them was womb-like.
Living there,
I knew I’d be caught
In shadow.
To swim in the dark eye of the mountain
Was a baptism.
Numbness to everyplace before.
Nowhere so cold, but cleansing,
Like a spring storm cleans the woods
Of weak bones.
My new allegiance
Fought in driven forays,
Falling down the winding road to the valley
Again and again.
Always coming back,
Uphill.
No comments:
Post a Comment