The Land

It was the trees that spoke to me

When you were not here

I cried out 

knowing You would hear

I needed help

Mist

White to black, black to white

Playing the tones,

every key of eighty eight

What withstood as art

is seared into memory

I write letters

Thinking of the words long

before they reach the paper

Words and words,

I think upon you.

They say the world is going to pieces

They only want the rocks and trees

I want it to capture

The light, the air, the time

What I feel inside

The land

The trees don’t move

Just the mist and clouds

moving through and out

Dodging and burning

is the real labor

Not the taking

Patsy and Virginia,

The music and the art

The mountains saved me

The mountains saved him

So differently.

I don’t know if I answered your question

Though I understand better.