The Open Breath of Appalachia

The sky stretches out.

High above, the atmosphere shifts,

a pulse moving through the dark

under the surface of the tall wood.

It pulls in the rain,

lifting limbs toward the height,

while the wind travels over wide reaches,

touching every hidden spot.

It speaks in the leaves with a dry rattle,

shaking seeds onto the dirt.

Waves of heat rise from the ground

as the light begins to spill.

It finds the path where the water flows,

under the gaze of the bright orb.

The stream moves fast over the drop,

past the vine and the tangled growth.

It gathers in the shallow bowl,

where small, wild creatures rest.

They wait for the moon to show its face,

moving with a steady motion.

The seasons turn in a heavy circle,

bringing the frost and the bite.

Then comes the thaw and the sudden rush

to feed the soil and end the dry time.

Life climbs toward the glow,

turning to find the warmth.

Nothing stands here to block the sight.

Everything is aged and everything is fresh.

The wild heart beats in the open chest,

finding its pace and its calm.

It needs no title to be whole

in the rustle and the flame.

Everything moves in a slow dance,

needles of the pine swaying,

carrying the presence of the coming storm.

Lightning flashes in the distance,

a brief spark against the void,

followed by the roll of the sky.

The earth waits for the fall,

the first cool touch upon the dry earth.

In the center of the wood,

the cycle turns,

the finish is only the beginning.

The world lives in the inhale,

finding peace in the breath out.