by Brian Longacre
I am an old child beneath these towering
trees, whose limbs scrape sky,
pick cotton clouds that slowly crawl
across more slowly crawling
mountainsides.
These old, Southern trees, raised by ancient
water and light,
raise us in our wild lives
raise us, opossum, dog, and deer,
raise us, who disappear,
raise us, who sit in spells, who sing our
talk, and marvel at myriad stars
like raccoon eyes,
And soak our tired times
in moonshine marinade, in apple pie,
molasses wine.
We, who sleep easy under metal roof rains,
rest our heads on Earth’s chest each night and dream.
