springtime in appalachia

wild ranging through levels of heaven,
the cumulus masses heap wet refrains in sheets,
white and earthbound, to the sagging crust and deciduous
herds steeped along the aging peaks and rotting valleylands.

cooled by stinging drips barreled down,
Delilah, her thin, April arms apart like Jesus,
hurls herself down ruddy, splintered steps to the tall grass,
uncut and moist on bare legs ferrying her out among the leaflands.

“just a little longer,” she calls to Mother,
who shook the bottle before it clanked among others,
black and empty as days of waste and retreat pass
through paneled halls and orange rugs.

Mother, she prays,

“Swift legs (you are fast like me) carry you out,
down into those unbound masses piled along the south,
roaming deep forestlands, such silent space, haunting, free,
wide asunder from this tepid cell, the groaning earth, the rust, the decay:
of appalachia.”

Mother, wish you were fast
like me.

(April 2010)