Saturday, August 9, 2008

In Gratitude to A. E. Douglass


across my own floating chronology
across the annual deposition of years
the varve of macadam:
the open road

drive skyline drive
to archive
varieties of pine, ash, oak
trees ring in anew
while i forget
the months, the miles
lost to a mist,
fogging memories
that tree rings remember
like felled history
buried beneath
wheels turning
seasons turning
leaves turning
gold blister yellow hot
red of iron ore
turning 'cricks' to rust
coming to rest
along a ridge
looking out over
the Smokies' blue ink upon papyrus
and overlooking
Apalachen mispronunciation
this Chinese watercolor in transition, in translation
by way of wandering Spanish explorers
lost along indigenous footpaths
worn by deer hoof, deer hunter, dearly departed
a burial ground for the ages, of the ages
before me
long after me
only a ring to wed me
to the trees i lie beneath

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