My Song for East Tennessee

White cotton linens hanging in the still, refrigerated air. Silhouettes of the sun above, sliding west, casting diagonal shapes over grass and twig. They hang on the line as if enchanted. Never is the line a restriction, a shackle; the line is simple and well-natured, long living all seasons. The linens know only the beds, the tables, and the backs of those who use. Placemat mentality. But the line handles the linens with the tips of its fingers, as you would the hand of a newborn. Filled with blood. And they dance with the wind and the sun, playing with the passing air, and brushing the damp earth. The light upon fabric a true reflection of the solar globe beaming down, now waning, but softly engaged in this evening chance at a dance with the bright young gowns freed from duty. They exhale and flap slow as if immersed in water. A ball.

The element they celebrate—perhaps, embody—is the sea far from these mountain valleys. It is the sea they know of through rumor trickling back from the wide rivers to the meandering creeks and streams. Spring rains can’t wait to fall to her rivulets and usher into her bounty. The lore is rich in the clouds, you see, and it is told in volumes of painted poem scripts. The birds bring news of unseen endless fields of water, unplanted. No farmers or cars. No fences. No trees to tie taut. No one to feed: only life as life and not life as source or resource. Filled with reason. A drop among immeasurable comrades, loves, enemies, fathers, sisters, pot holders, toasters, motorcycles, pages, chalk boards, cupboards, cookie jars, and nights of light.



I wrote this is in the outer edge of winter in Johnson City, TN, my home for the past year. It was a place of surprising movement and people. I've now reached the end of my stay there and look upon its brown hills with a smile.