Wednesday, October 3, 2012


Will you claim me now, after 30-years
of breathing your air, growing tall and then bent
in your ubiquitous rain?

I gave you my prime, two sons, a marriage,
a thousand questions, the only answer,
another son.

My knees are callused with three decades of kowtowing
to your peaks and valleys, your green and your gray,
the ruggedness of your shores.

Will you claim me now as I walk with you still
in gentle contemplation and watching
as you turn men calm

and make women strong? Let me lean-in and listen
to you whisper the blessing of shade and tranquility.
Claim me now

the way you claimed me that first summer so long ago
as I cleared fescue from the overgrown garden with scythe
and splinters and blisters.

I found your rhythm then, do you remember? Between
deep breaths, steady strokes and dripping sweat,
I learned your name.

In time, I stopped and drank clear water as Mary’s Peak
turned black against the dusk of my youth
and you became my mother.

Toe Good Poetry - October 3, 2012

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