Holly Haworth

The oldest mountains


July and the rains are here

the rains that have worn the earth

down carved it out to steep creeks

fall on my uplifted face as I look 

to the long gray of all day unchanged sky

luminous mists rising off 

the long river and I have

that feeling of years 


that creekiness

heavy with mosses

ferns lacing sharp stacks of stones

rhododendrons like wet bones clacking

branching bent over the dark

rushing water always the clash

and percussion of water

falling I have grown

aged here listening.

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