only the wind
dancing
with the
leaves and tiny
branches
of the trees.
I can hear
an underlying
melody cascading
up and out of
the Delaware
as it courses
with power through
the red shale Gap.
It is from this place,
it is in that melody
I hear the subtle
variations that
my heart has learned
to long for.
A melody that sings
to me of beehives
and of doves;
of loamy
woodland trails
and knolls.
It is here I have
learned to sing of
what a man is when
there is no movement out
and away from the center.
Sloping Appalachians,
rising up among the
foothills of my youth;
you have consumed me
and left me
mesmerized
by the shrill trill
of your insects
and birds,
of your tree frogs
and raccoons.
I am lost
in a cacophony
that has destroyed
the mayhem of
civilized existence.
It is gone.
Place
Place is the
kind of thing
that gets under
the nails, behind
the ears, and
between the toes.
It follows you
everywhere—
lending just a
hint of displacement
and yearning toward
the sun of home—
a flower turning
to the solar path;
all day long.
You can almost
hear it in every
sound; just enough
to know that this
new space is not
“IT.”
Dorothy took
it with her and
used “IT” as a beacon
to escape the wonders
of Oz.
Moses had “IT”
just behind his eyes
so he could know the
place he had only
dreamed of.
Indians and
dinosaurs longed
for “IT” before they
died and would
walk an aimless
outward journey
by feeling an
inner trek to the
place that was
the origin of their
very own self.
Columbus
set out to
find the
place of his
discovery
hoping it would
mirror the “IT”
of what he
knew—
amplified with
untold riches.
You get older
and the longing
for the remnants
of place grows
deeper, richer, and
stronger with each
passing moist
breath of
time apart.
The skin can
feel
