Something about holding a geode in your hand and trying gently to crack it open.
Something about the road to Berea.
Something about the way the misty mountain rain only gets one side of the old dead standing oak wet while simultaneously drenching completely the short lime green new cones of the virginia pines.
                             I did say
something about wild
   flowers exploding 
    in a woodpile. Some
     thing about chopping 
      wood and carrying 
        water to the trees.
         Something real about life,
         something real about
         the softness of stone.
    something about 30 days in      Lexington
                something about             poetry.
           something about a               month.