dock spider, mud, fish;
a small hardwood forest hike
to a man-made lake
you can feel the joy
seeping through this perfect view
of nature, reborn
lakes are in my blood.
i learned to swim in one
and love nothing more
a magical place:
the only way to describe
these teenage smiles
even pup loves it
cycling past wildlife
below the Smokies
where can you see bears
and collect salamanders
under the same sun?
this mountain-framed pic
taken on the same soil
twenty-three years past
we’re fatter, older
while the mountains are hotter;
such is life—sad changes
yet look at our girls
fearlessly taking this on
one moon-wing a time
a magical place:
the only way to describe
these teenage smiles
even pup loves it
cycling past wildlife
below the Smokies
where can you see bears
and collect salamanders
under the same sun?
this mountain-framed pic
taken on the same soil
twenty-three years past
we’re fatter, older
while the mountains are hotter;
such is life—sad changes
yet look at our girls
fearlessly taking this on
one moon-wing a time
through Cumberland Gap
we drive down to Tennessee
and stand in three states
it’s been many years
(the gap between visits here)
and everything’s changed
Pappy’s room is new
with the antique furniture
from their grandparents
a whole new kitchen
to fill Donna’s empty nest
with the light of love
this generation
will take the time to teach them
and fill in the gaps
they’ll learn who came first,
what they fought for, what they lost;
close gaps, open eyes
from this flight: find light
carry it twenty years past
your flight-or-fight life
through the turbulence
of youth’s wanderlust wonders,
past career questions,
into the blue sky
of a healthy tomorrow
shined by little grins.
find the golden light
carried by heavenly wings
that kept you on Earth.
happy fortieth,
twenty years without cancer,
and still shining bright.
his hometown forest
waits for us with him in it:
the perfect campsite
sun rays stream through clouds
on Appalachian hills
green, white, blue beauty
rain in the Smokies
greening the enchanted woods
our daughters long for
Smoky Mountain sun
brings another red morning
beauty on my bike
with chunks of chicken
sticker books and melting chocolate
crinkly bags of beef jerky
mini pencils strewn like petals
crumbs in every crack
we make our way along the border
its golden sphere beckons us to stop.
we can’t go inside but see the perfect playground,
the grass soft as our new carpet,
the two-story fountain filled with children
who hear it erupt and rush
like carnivorous hawks toward fresh prey,
and i forget
(for all of ten minutes)
that i am not one of them,
but the parent
now soaked from head to toe,
dress sticking to my legs
as my three little girls
weave me in and out of spurts
in our quilt of childhood joy,
sewing up the perfect end
to a dogged day’s drive.
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