These Hills Hold

What I couldn’t say,
the wind carried anyway.

It rained in my head for months—
but now these flowers
lift their faces
toward whatever light there is.

I remember Papaw Bill
falling from the branch while fishing—
his boot and pride
floating downstream.

I cast my line over a limb,
and a fish took
the moment it touched water.

These hills
held so much
of my language.

The iron—sweet smell of wet clay
rose from the creek—
faint enough
to open me outward.