SOUTHERN MOUNTAINS

Somewhere beyond the years, beyond the night time ghost line
Of trees beside the highway,
I see the long-lined poems I want to write about Virginia,
About these mountains that once hid Jackson's army,
And long drives south at the end of the summer.
In the evenings, as the miles go by, the world can look so calm But also full of longing in its silence. By the end of August the leaves on all the trees
Have blown in the wind for so many months.
Wouldn't they just love to let go
And float away?

In seven or eight hours I will be in North Carolina drinking
Beer and listening to Steve Earle tapes on Hoss's porch,
His greasy dogs licking themselves under the table,
As lightning breaks across the Iron Mountains.
And later, I will sleep in a spare room
With heavy quilts pulled over against the chilly
Mountain air. In the morning
I will wake to the sound of the wind in the trees.
I'll open my eyes and see my bag on the floor, my boots
Shoved back against the wall,
And this post card you wrote from Memphis
Tacked beside the mirror.
Wondering how you are—I am here, hello.

— stephen gibson