Behind the Landscape
Do you sense me in the peaks
of mountains or in the rain
that cascades and floods the streams
in this high valley born of rock and
tillable but infertile fields and history
at the edge of sorrowful memories?
My folds are not the folds
of the Blue Ridge that
reveal themselves on a clear day;
mine are discontinuous
and form no visible line
to a final destination.
I am not the orange puff
reflected in clouds that form
in a clear blue sky
or the late-day glow
that lights up the greenery
and the golden fields.
I am the haze that moves
over the ridge line,
the fog that creeps along
the mountain tops,
the tendrils of ivy
that shroud sections of stone.
Sifted through decades of debris,
I am best viewed from an overlook
on Skyline Drive where I appear
as a vague cluster of atoms,
indistinguishable from the elements
that allow me to hide from life.