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Mountain
Deep in cotton fields
miles beyond the Georgia state line
the mountain rises
green, blue and straight
from the dry dust roads of Alabama.
Strong as a backbone, she
buries my shadow.
The blood rich smell
of earth and clay
mingles with sweat and
trickles sweetly down my back.
An age-old whisper
that everyone knows
and everyone tells
in back room above faded conversations
floats past half-open windows,
half-shut lids and wide open mouths.
Sometimes, even now
presses lighty upon my mind
like a film of gauze, squared and cornered,
criss-crosssed into my flesh.
Line dried linens and 'Ivory' soap
lingers on freckled skin.
Lightning flashes eyes of green that peer
long past rows of corn, lettuce, and watermelon.
Sunflower heads nod sleepily
in an afternoon lull-a-bye.
The mountain, hers and mine,
calls long after summer drifts past
and lies down in a bed of dreams by my side.
Honeydew, magnolia and coffee bean
drifting my conscience;
lavender, wool and pine
folded neatly, tucked softly,
into all the dark, secret places of youth.
And my MamaLee, who always missed the valley
hums me to sleep on the wings of wind and violin.
--Nora Loveless
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