Brassieres and French Knickers Pinned to a Clothesline It was the dainties That caught my eye As I drove by Brassieres and French Knickers Pinned To a clothesline Swaying In the breeze Interlacing Like wind-torn lovers In a slow gentle Tango of straps And lace ▬▬▬ Bessie Smith Merritt Grandma smelled Of Murphy's Oil Soap Beeswax Old World Wood Polish Rubbed deep into her hands From years of cleaning and polishing Church pews library shelves Tabletops chairs— Deepened wood hues Tainted from years of emollients Gently wiped and burnished into the grain Using the softest of cloths Ever swirling motions of luster and pride— A good day's work— Amen ▬▬▬ Johnny Merritt's Mum I walked past the bakery in the old neighborhood Where I was for just a moment Transported back in time To mouthwatering smells Coming from the kitchen That was right before Pop left us And Mum got so sick It's all I have left now . . . sweet memories Cooking aromas drove us mad Anticipation of sweet pastries piping hot As she fished them out of the pan Sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon Lined them up on a rack to cool Just as we were ready to grab one She would yell at us to get out of her kitchen We swore she had eyes in the back of her head We'd grab one anyway head out the back door We could hear her laughter As we ran . . . sweet memories Baked goods were her specialty Pies breads pastries All sold to feed us Clothe us Pay the rent Mum wiped her hands on a freshly starched apron Worn over a washed-out cotton dress hanging From her barely 100-pound frame As she moved slowly towards the stove Flour wafted through the room In a perfect line with the sun's rays Streaking through crevices in the clapboards Miniscule white flecks drifting gracefully down To plank boards On the kitchen floor Oven heat didn't dampen her sweet spirits She hummed cheerfully As she pushed back a tuft of hair That slipped from Her braided knotted bun The light reflected a hint of silver threading gently Through her auburn mane— Mum was far too young for the gray Woven from hardship not old age Sweet memories ▬▬▬ Sister Florence Myrtle Barron I draw her memory to me Envision her essence close my eyes Garden roses and lavender emit a faint Fragrance at the far end of the parlor Where her casket is tucked into a columned niche A prudent design by the builder who knows Just how things are done by country folk A space where a family can View their loved one Send them to their heavenly home She's in a better place I stare at her from a distance Move closer and closer to the casket Does someone lift me up or do I climb to peek Touch her alabaster skin hard and smooth A death mask of pale, polished stone Doesn't she look good She's in her Sunday best her purple flowered dress Baptist women don't usually wear bright colors Jesus-on-the-Cross chain around her neck A hint of rouge on her cheeks and lips Baptist women don't usually wear makeup Silver flecked hair finger-waved to perfection Plum-colored rhinestone clip-on earrings . . . Her only fineries in fifty-two years on the farm She's suffering no more The smell of roses overtake wafting aromas of Country hams cakes pies platters of fried chicken Family and neighbors Pray eat sing Amen, sister Florence ▬▬▬ There's Something Cleansing About Momma's Death Soapsuds and a good old washing Removed any issues I had . . . Wiped the slate clean As Daddy’s workpants Rubbed on the washboard Rinsed in the tub Hung on the clothesline On a flawless spring day What good comes from replaying your scenes: Like the director of life Who repaints the backdrop Queues up a different line Alters the acts Rewrites the drama— My heart is as spotless As Daddy's workpants Scrubbed clean Dried in the wind Plucked from the clothesline On a flawless spring day

Visit to Cindy's Diner The only place around here is a truck stop a dozen miles down the divided highway, surrounded by soybeans, where the coffee might be hot. I've not eaten there in nearly fifty years living around here, so I can't write you a diner epiphany. But then, I have not visited Machu Picchu, The Great Wall, Victoria Falls, Sanchi, or the Marine cemetery on Iwo Jima: I travel around my yard: 4.75 times to a mile, feeling tuckered out when almost home. Can you trust color-enhanced brochures, YouTube travelogues, aerial views of capital cities, grimy laminated menus? I can't stop thinking of refugees stumbling to freedom with a satchel, their lives folded inside. Is there a way for us to escape the parking lot of our experience? I don't know the waitress truckers brag about, their scrambled eggs getting cold during the ogle, but hear local grits of gossip, retirees' political platitudes. I remember all the friendships lost before apology could be spoken. The coffee re-fills are not really wanted though the befriending smile that comes with them is cherry pie to die for, it is rumored. ▬▬▬ The Rabbit's Fault And he said, Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering? —Genesis 22:7 Proud to be God-fearing as God is in his heart, our neighbor cleans guns on his back porch. He knows the mountains and valleys better than the deer he hunts, knows them every chapter and verse— the buck's antlers skinning the bark of the Devil's Walkingstick, the scat and scratch of bear and turkey on trails he knows even in sleep. His sons, Josh and Aden, ten and seven, beg to apprentice their father's craft and creed, their camos both school uniform and Sunday best. This fine October morning they range in scattered formation for the boys' first kill. They venture along the haunch of tawny weeds, dogwood leaves just in their red dripping. Like prophesy in the breech, a rabbit floats above the dew and the older brother swings his rifle to sight that perfect prize: eager Aden runs between the two— the instant burns, legs surrender to gravity, surrenders his breath to love grass, goldenrod, desperate pleas unanswered his homecoming is with the bullet's indifferent flight. ▬▬▬ Motives for Complaint Ophthalmologist Father, age fifty-one, delighted in his new daughter: my mother had a room of her own in the country house of stone and wood. He had the first car in town in which she was driven to private schools, summer camp, to horse riding lessons. He was Victorian strict, tall, clean, white haired— her older sister grew bitter, not so sickly, bore the brunt. The two were legacied into a proper New England women's college near the end of the Great Depression. After her sister married the one she didn't really care for, Mother got pregnant insuring her sense of self. My father was of working-class respectability, working his way up, of good humor. She never was employed having three children, then a fourth, being a good mother as she understood the duty and raised three well-adjusted, moral children. Living in a thoroughly modest ranch house, she took us to swim lessons, Girl Scouts, piano lessons, to remedial reading; took herself to art study group, garden club, AAUW meetings. She knew her wildflowers and painted them on tinware, on velvet. She knew her ancestry by heart and pride. Her inherited things were safe in cabinets, cupboards, and closets untouched by Maxine, the colored, once-a-week cleaning lady. Mother was mentally sound until the end, refusing dialysis, but recognizing her time had come to look for a more satisfactory world. ▬▬▬ One Joe had them leave a car-sized boulder in the front lawn and it stayed there after the backhoe had gone. He likes anomalies, he explains, a word he learned not long ago: the idea of his chunk of mountain. He weed-eats around it like a barber works around the brain or an editor proofs a life story. His kids play on it, love it as if a family heirloom that genealogy has ignored. His wife, Kathy, stays jealous, threatens, but he can't coax it to roll away and lichen fail to adequately disguise it. ▬▬▬ Friday of Beach Week Books bookmarked two chapters shy, puzzle with too many unplaced orphans, we are tired; there is a sense of loss in this cup of coffee, looking out at the vast language of the sea. We fold soiled clothes into the carry-on, decide what utensils and food will be needed in the morning. We repack the unused paper towels, remaining granola, the berries the teenagers haven't scarfed-up. The peaches we brought from the mountains look soft and tired too. The benefits of vacation are spent. We have purchased logo-ed T-shirts, taken full moon photos, ignored the caution flag for one last dip. We have taken the family, grandchildren, out to a dress-up dinner, climbed Currituck Beach Lighthouse, and witnessed the flicker of dolphins. The sea is flat with only sniveling waves, the surfboard rental to be picked up this afternoon. The joy will get us through stressful, unrelenting traffic; blue waves of mountains will be a sight to behold. ▬▬▬ Come to Grief In the town of our grief, laws are spelled out, chiseled, like spread-sheeted obligations and functions of empathy. Corner crosswalks are the first steps to the other side, to recovery, to freedom from loss. Sunday afternoons after church, a woman parks her bright yellow car in the empty parking lot to cry alone, thinking her own ransom of little reward. The boy sees his father's body beside Everson's Creek, throws rocks to break the water's pane. He does not know the vocabulary of escape. A man relives his childhood through his perfect son. He is good people, hoards air quotes and place-words, to bundle his emotional swash and brag. Yet all men lose their younger selves, try as they might to hold their own images. In the town of our grief, we jaywalk in defiance of the warning hand: orange as a mystical flame. The countdown-man does not win the invisible comings and goings of desire and regret.

Wisdom Whispered Wisdom whispered on the hawk's wings as it glided across the glen's sky Snippets of knowledge chirped in staccato pulses from deep leafy boughs Thoughts swept over rocks as unseen waters followed a winding tunnel 'twixt forest and meadow The poet listened intently hoping to understand the messages Word arrived on butterfly wings Breathe... ▬▬▬ Strawberry Moon Suite Hanging low in the sky Luscious and full Seems close enough to touch O Succulent moon if I place a plump ripe strawberry in front of your shining face I can imagine the sweet rich strawberry juice dripping over my face and into my mouth before creating a long pink trickle down my t-shirt (2021) Would you sip it or eat it up with a spoon while staring overhead at the Strawberry moon? (2023) Juicy and sweet, a night for romance Select a sweetie go take a chance If your charms can't entice maybe lunacy will Your reward will be sweeter with your Jack or your Jill but be careful with wooing don't take it too far whether in the tall grass or the backseat of your car (2024) ▬▬▬ Butterfly Byway Sharing the highway, a butterfly by-way or should I say fly-way: Jubilant butterflies, Tiger-swallow tails, state insect of Virginia, ebulliently zigzagged across the road or caught the slipstream sliding easily and safely over my car. The dappled roadside sun and shade mirrored the yellow and black stripes on their wings The sweetness of that country ride provided the nectar I needed while butterflies sought nectar from the many flowering bushes and trees. ▬▬▬ In Honor of National Redneck Day, July 3 My truck remains in four-wheel drive Man, it's a great time to be alive We're the people they grumble about, But now it's our turn to shout Country music's so big Everyone wants a slice We might let you in If you're polite and act nice Just wear some boots, A big buckled belt And a cowboy hat of White or black felt ▬▬▬ Some Bloggers Come and Go Bloggers come and bloggers go. Some bloggers are people I wish I could know, a few are missed, many are not, maybe disliked or mostly forgot. Many bloggers post daily, a few once a week or irregularly on subjects when they wish to speak. Many have topics, a few more have schemes, it's like reading improv, variation of themes. Some do best-of-previous posts, an occasional share of what they like the most. Some keep repeating things within the same week, what type of attention are they trying to seek? Others repeat without a revision, reminds me of childhood summer television

Stream Good Medicine, Little Traveler! You are truly a Paddle Person —Paddle-to-the-Sea, Holling C. Holling Writing out against the white, blue lines holding up, upholding dark words going where they will like goat or guinea pastures in the slight forgetfulness of powdered snow, pink sky streaked in purple. Sad to say, daylight often ends up bruised this way, the canoe bobbing to the sea in birchbark skin, a straight-backed figure seated in— and who is not a Paddle Person being carried to the sea? In a sweet slide into evening light slow to come and quick to go the furnace speaking out against the cold breaking silence of risen yeast bread. as the cat rubs up against the dog the horse rubs up against the dusk the train rumbles through as I rub up on thoughts of him, the him who's you my you. Send a postcard, will you when you can— or give a sign as my father came back as old tom turkey who, on seeing me, cocked his head in the exact angle he wore his porkpie hat flapped his body to rise and disappear in every story's deep dark woods. A sign like that. Or is it all a universal stew and am I, are we here and now what's left of you. The moon-blind pony trotted straight into a tree, the one tree in her paddock. The furnace cycles on. The dog groans in her sleep, a groan that's half growl. 4 AM: earlier than late, time to push around the pillows to better understand the head, turn the other cheek. Lying here not sleeping day-lit women somewhere slap their shoes on char though not war but for their own good, words heard as a father's belt slipped to strap: who it hurt more. The lid lifted and out came Hope, shushed and battered (Emily says feathered) the last past Pandora's narrow-necked amphora, Hope's perch: its thick lip. A camera flash becomes the white light crouched against in school hands behind necks— not asking how wooden desks would save our pungent underworld of wet wool, pine wax floors galoshes singeing on radiator coils waiting for the wail when we would rise to continue, word for word, parsing meanings line by line, what Hector did on the Scamandrian Plain. Before life, there was no time, I'm almost sure he said, laser pointer dancing on a creation diagram in the image of a spilled cup, its dregs: the timelessness of a when that never was, is, or would be. No ever after or before. No old, no mean, no lost, or wasting, marking, spending, no stitch in saving nine in the hum of origin's blue (he said its color was) slime. Dew-wop wet mop machines hum warm wet songs as I steer clear as a commercial—dog hair, beware! notched dials Sensi-dried. Ice cubes rumble into being. An advert of myself my beast bakes bread until it smiles brown and risen also from itself proofed as pudding's truth. My beast craves sweets has beastly belly fat, been told it hides behind good deeds. Worse ways, snorts the beauty of my beast, with its sweet teeth dementing again. Leftovers slicken. Green disks cover sour cream while childhood's starving Armenians still starve. The vulture keeps faithful vigil beside famine's curled-up child. None of this is new. And the naked girl, dark hair streaming, Running from her own back burning, always burns. The reek of laundry's white load quieting as the box of new bees for the failed hive, the queen by her size, her blue-dot back. The soft tap, tap of house cat lapping water. The rock drops, circles ripple out, circles inside circles. Let it lie where it lands out there in the salt marsh with the sleeping dogs. The note pinned to the straight-backed figure, the Paddle Person in the birchbark canoe: Please put me back in the water. ▬▬▬ Two Weeks Old Angled in my daughter's arm close against her chest, his newborn legs flopped across her lap, his out-of-focus eyes as if he's picturing the potting shed, picket fence, Peter Rabbit's jacket. His head wobbles when Mr. McGregor grabs his hoe. I'm not sure he gets it, says my wild-child turned Madonna from deep inside herself, but I do know he hears my voice. ▬▬▬ Clipping Spring Pastures Hook up the bushhog, baby. Hook it to the big John Deere. Put the power-take-off in the gear box to turn the shaft that turns the blades so I go mowing hollow stems and bitter leaves tall and seedy in the breeze. We need them gone. Them and whatever else meets the blades— let's hope not fawns or turkey hens. Sure, he's sick but better than the days of eyes-closed music. I read somewhere time gets lost in music. There's much to be said for breath beside me in the dark, an arm across, his getting up to take a pill or going out to smoke, cool skin returning. We made a chart. So much to remember. Lamb's ear spreading past the rock bed, softening the rock ledge. Like that, sex on Sunday afternoon, the birdhouse swaying with wren weight. First barn swallows—scouts, he calls them— glide in and out empty stalls enroute to where they go back from where they've been, maybe wondering what happened to the horses. Ours—that is, the swallows who raise in mud-daubed rafters here—some weeks away but coming. It is not the old blind pony, nickering—I'd call her, she'd call me—but some life back in the barn.

Haiku Suite fall leaves cascade downstream in the morning dew buoyant seen from the distance woodpecker drills for insects mealtime orange and glowing California poppy seeds beautiful flowers

The Storm A fury of mad wind, pelting rain, a wildness of gale and water. Lightning's razor slash, thunder hammering the air like a conquering army. Now a dark and swollen day, the storm but half-spent. Land and sea-cove lost in mist, the world suspended, unmoored, full of unknown beings. This place of storm and surge, of salt, stone, scrub, this elemental land of eagle and osprey, the gull's sharp cry, the great blue heron standing in patient stillness— the ancient ocean's moods are life and death to them. We watch and listen... ▬▬▬ When I Die Wrap my body in a clean, white sheet, fine and strong, taken from my own closet. Place me on a pyre of limbs gathered from the great trees of my home ground. Say a prayer or read a poem, the one that spoke to me for my mother— "I am not here, I did not die...." Put a match to this, my final bed. Release my many-celled memories— The girl stretched on warm grass, looking skyward, knowing the sun-breathing earth. The fearless rider of the wind, a horse racing the storm. The stirring of heat for the one who took me, blind-folded, to the dark ocean that I would see, sudden, its vast, churning life, a universe of stars — a breath, a wildness. Commit me to the flame. Let it take everything: the hidden stories, all guilt and all remorse, laughter, love, grief, the energy of my every atom rising into the invisible elements. It is enough, they say, to destroy cities, or to birth a thousand Edens. ▬▬▬ Summer, 1966 Searing heat, burning sand, changing tides. The ocean's surge and speed, riding waves the way my father taught me. Or afloat on gentle swells that made the sea seem a friend. The Dutch wives' weekly coffee clique— my mother's yellow cake on fine china plates, the small silver teaspoons brought out. The women's light laughter, the delicate porcelain tap of cup put to saucer. My secret crush, in his fire-red Stingray three of us crowded in close, his shoulder tight against mine, a touch so fraught I could hardly breathe. One unmarked day, the last ridden wave. And hidden as the instant of a tide's turning, my mother's last cake. ▬▬▬ Monk's Prayer, Onsley Abbey, Oxford, May 1222 Again, o Lord, in spirit heavy laden do I bend this struggling soul to thee in prayer most hesitant and humble, so to name vague misery. That propensity of tears were mine, for pain might sting my cheek in blessing, then be gone. Yet cold my countenance, yet sear my heart from burning grief hard-pressing. Repeated acts of sacrificial love bring no relief where torment mars the undecided mind. Were simple love and trust in me to reign I would not be so lowly bent, so blind. And should pure thought flow faultlessly and deep, then would I at last begin to weep.

Extramural . . . Charlottesville Age six, I bounce in back of a red pickup with best pal Gail. Her mom Jake, twig-like and chattering, roars down Route 29 from Culpeper. Not sure what Jake needed, but probably spring produce and a butcher shop. Now we'd all be arrested for that fresh air ride. Still muse on this. In 1969, only two ways for a girl to go to university there: nursing, and/or architecture. If braver then, I might've elbowed the boys in mechanical drawing. But nursing school? Ha: one faint and out the door. Cardiac arrest? I'm more one for wild paints & verses. North star afar. But don't you mess with it. Who are you with your tiki torches, your khakis stained by hate and hubris, marching into a gentle town cloaked by low mountains? How dare you chase folk into a damp church basement? How dare you kill Heather? Should've arrested every last fair-haired demon: Lock them up. ▬▬▬ Sacred Harp Jane of a morning sings creekside lilt lifts her caller tale for the sparrow who keens for his child Ballads too and hymns stories the seams of our souls she slips the broadside in her pocket cotton muse clings to promises he made Four shapes in a row taught in the clapboard hall call-response piano-less rafters bounce as sorrows spill Bird peers through open window girl's arm counts in rhythm voices down valley echo wild vines spin laments into stone. ▬▬▬ Her Next Amen Cousin Kathy plays the parsonage piano in Chuckatuck. Brown-eyed girl with auburn hair, knows tunes from "Funny Girl" and "Lilies of the Field." I'm straight as a stick from southwest hills, figuring out flat fields, figs, a five-mile bridge, the angry fear that percolates around here. Tight little town, governor's girl rides her horse. Church pews full. I remember my aunt baking hot cross buns, uncle turning on Sunday night wrestling. All of us dressed to the nines at Easter. Everyone prays, but no one speaks. There’s one side of town, and the other. But, Mom, they sing just like us. ▬▬▬ Schmirekase Zealous Granny stirs Schmierkase furiously spoons out jam she flawlessly beat Grandad to harvest wild cherries, making sure none would be left for his sweet sugared wine ▬▬▬ The Grottoes The brothers all talk a certain way. Toss pebbles on an ironing board, rub. Scrape minie balls in hard clay, slide. Sing baritone pitch on p-100 grit. Swim through red dust for their chuckles. Drive east a few miles off Eleven, Past the whitewashed chapel, Down a thin road shaded by cornstalks. They wait for you there, near the caverns, On their carport. With RCs. I swear I can see them as boys. They milk the Jerseys, Lift limestone out of fields, Fry bream for breakfast. Come home to me now. ▬▬▬ The Spring House, 1835, Virginia Daddy's daddy George Washington Bowman built the spring house down by the Blackwater, just over the clay drop from our house. Stacked rock they call it, no mortar needed because the wet riverbank holds the bottom in place and heavy clay acts as a roof, though the roof sways with colonies of cliff swallows who bore holes in there every June. Daddy said they built it to keep the milk cold and the corn fresh but he also said somebody had used flat rocks long before their own. That would have been Tachwina's Tutelo ancestors. She talks about them and most days sees some of their spirits in the trees and rocks along the river. She sees her lost ones dance along top of the palisade leading down to the spring house. Tachwina and I are the same age and along with Franklin are helping the elders prepare for Jane's wedding. Franklin has scars on his arms and ankles where the man in Richmond caught him after he ran away, but they've healed nicely since he got loose again and headed up here to the mountains. Haven't been any slaves in this hollow ever, because we've been chased ourselves and these long ridges hide a valley full of memories and dreams. It's terrible how a man can own another man. They do at the Englishman's orchard in the next hollow over. Franklin and me, and Tachwina, we'd sneak over to the English house if we wouldn't get caught and set all those people free. Then the English could figure out by themselves how to grow apples.

Demolition by Neglect I am transported back in time as I walk through the remains of Mom's old home. It was once happy here when people I loved lived here when I was a boy. Its metal roof, now peeled back by Bertha's fury in '96, has exposed its core to the elements for a decade. Decayed floors, dangerous, as I walk through the rooms. I see each one as they were. They are now filled with trash—waste from the owners who bought it 35 years ago. They have cared not for the joy and tradition the structure sustained since 1880. The odor of rotting wood and water-logged textiles takes my breath. I weep as I walk down the long hall, dodging gaping holes while remembering Aunt Mary greeting me with a hug at the front door. I look out at the old garage and see Lila's light blue bug parked by its gate. Thank goodness that Judy's snake jars are long gone! I remember playing under the house, and Uncle Kilmer shaving outside and telling me about the Blue Jay in the front tree. I reminiscence of when we took Aunt Katie and Uncle Jack there for a picnic on the front porch back in '70—their last visit where she was born and lived. I have a keen sense of oneness with this place that I cannot shake. Workmen are removing 110-year-old fat-lighter clapboards for reuse in a new home—at least something will be repurposed— withering tree succumbs to nature's wrath transitions for homeplace and sweet memories as I walk around its impending grave ▬▬▬▬▬▬ Time Divides I knew as I drove down the lane this would be the last time I would see the old house standing. I could not stop the tears and deep-pitted sense of sorrow for the loss of my mom's home. Walking through the old cemetery I reflected on my mother's kin as I read inscriptions on their marble stones. Even though the once proud home is in decay, soon to fade away at least these hallowed stones will remain. Once the touchstones of our lives are gone, 'tis only our memories which time itself can neither steal nor hide, but it divides the days and hours left for all things, and for each of us. ▬▬▬ Mama's Chair Rocking a cool summer evening away on the carport, mama's patio, graced by the beauty of Gerber daisies, her favorite flower, purple and white petunias, and red geraniums. Vodka tonics and roasted nuts by our side and Truman Catt curled up on one of the pillows strewn on the old oak swing complimented the evening and ambiance of our conversation. Mom's laugh wafts on evening breeze as we talk of days long-gone, her growing up on the farm and just about everything else under the sun. I love these times with her. I'm fully engaged and ask how long she's been rocking in that old rickety rocking chair. She takes another sip of tonic and replies With a laugh, "all of my life!" Now tell me about your new job, and how things are going. with mama, it's always a question about me, my wife and daughter, and everything else. Unconditional love expressed at every moment, and always set to time with every rock of that old oak chair a perfect four-four. she shares love and life's lessons mama rocks ▬▬▬ Night Becomes Day night becomes day as cold rain sifts through trees solace memories of a time that no longer exists ▬▬▬ Aria just as one hears soft music in the wind a poet discovers magic in the ocean's aria ▬▬▬ Grains of Sand It was through your soft poetic voice embedded within many lines of prose that I began to realize life's essence and how I might recapture my verve stolen by advancing age. No longer will I gaze into void's dark abyss for it's a street that ends in hell. I choose to walk upon the sandy shore at dawn And let the waves wash grains of sand Over my feet as I savor ocean's ever-changing symphony as its pulsing waves rush ashore in harmony with gentle winds and the squawks and squeals of seagulls. The kaleidoscopic hues of morning sky yield to Sol's grand, brilliant ascent. Night's inspiring finale now replaced by new day's promise set against an azure sky. I am in awe of nature's gifts and life's blessings. Each morning, I am renewed—at peace. My days are numbered as I write this verse, but time, like grains of gold, is precious, priceless...

The Space Between Us Two book-ends on the sofa listening to the rain, pretending the space between them is temporary. The tapping on the roof fading slowly, like words on a love letter written in the years before the waters parted. The valley between Shenandoah's two branches. ▬▬▬ I Am Learning Virginia. How the temperatures swing twenty degrees in less than an hour. The snow will come, but not when you expect it. Deer taking out a row of tomato plants. The rabbit in morning Monkey grass. Rolling hills from Suffolk to Highway 85, the valleys near Blacksburg, like the dips between the veins on the back of my hand. Peanut and cotton crops, then and now. Maybe it.s an illusion, a fallacy that one can learn this mysterious lady. But from mountain to marsh, I can spend my days trying. ▬▬▬ Halfway Across the World, Meanwhile at Home Not yet nine o'clock in the morning and the temperature is creeping towards ninety. In May. The puppy is sprawled on the kitchen floor. Legs all askew, Lincoln Logs. She pants as the air unit in this old house moans to cool. Fights a losing war against the heat seeping in cracks and crevices. Today's newspaper tells of raging forest fires melting glaciers far from us. Young crusaders and rich energy companies skirmishing halfway across the world. Sweat trickles down our back, tickles. We can't afford to turn down the temperature on the ailing air unit or gas up the car for a trip to Harrisburg for mountain breezes. So, we fan ourselves, sip iced tea. Dip into the kiddie pool in the backyard. Make sure to duck inside in time to watch Live @ Five. Take note of what impacts our area. ▬▬▬ The Ghost Forest The marsh will walk. Stomp right up to the pine forest and attack. Sand wave after sand wave forces. Saltgrass ambushing whatever gets in the way. Watermen haints watch from pungys. See modern man undoing what nature scripted and etched long ago. ▬▬▬ Rest Easy The leaves rainbow and the pumpkins rest. No longer grab the earth to scooch from the patch. Comfortable to fruit. Add bright oranges and ochres to the red, golden yellow, and royal purple of the tree's umbrella. Enjoy the cooler weather, the early dark evening. Rest easy.