Perhaps, when the world was young,
naive and untouched, I was here
in this semi-arid region
gulping for air & water.
I may have known words then.
Now I have to learn them like a body
of language I’ve just discovered.
Now I must drink them like a symphony of rivers
carving a canyon of divided tongues.
Curves of my favorite mountain
are painted with eastern colors
in my mind’s gallery.
I pull this painting out when needed,
when I yearn for the fog that rests
on her smoky and swelling crests.
I visit home when I doubt.
I wander her hills & sit under a sycamore,
dream of tulip poplars and may apples
in the spring. Then I remember how
the mountains directed me
back into that mellifluous fold,
like a conductor waving her arms
over a masterpiece.