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
cragged
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.