|
| |
Pioneering
Rolling clouds over rolling hills.
Kentucky is winding it roads out in endless curves.
No hurry,
this journey drives me
through its curling landscape
as a self-reading picture book of racial memories.
Born in a far way place, I feel rooted now
to these unfolding boonies and hollers,
backwoods and backroad, places
that speak to my very bones.
A small town ahead, a clapperboard store
a gas station and a 7-11. Despite being modern
they have that tumbledown structure
that is native to these rural backwaters.
The shanty tilt of well-worn porches,
dusty front yards flagged with
the fading banners of old glory.
The sun will be going down soon,
I'm driving slow, meandering into a history
I recognize as my own.
The fields are threaded with deer
as evening paints the gleaming creeks gold.
I'm told
that perfection is a pocketsize piece of scenery
no one has discovered yet,
a place just right, one just now
appearing as my memorable soul.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
|
|