Ozark Mountains
Those who say the Ozarks
make them dizzy with its grandfather
mountains and twisting roads must not
have looked at the majestic bluffs—
soaring cathedrals—hosting the moon
and its light, the boulders they shoulder,
outcroppings upriver or peaks where
heaven meets earth in a golden October
glow. Surely they have not seen the caves
swallowed up inside cliffs, havens
with low ceilings hanging ominously.
The caverns here housed history:
baskets of corn, bowls for mush
and pine nuts, slabs of dried venison,
rattles, drums, flutes, pipes, water jars.
These mountains held enticing odors
from pots steaming over fires and sheltered
clans from howling, unforgiving winds
tearing through treetops like wild rivers
that flood, gush and roar through valleys
making us mountain folks stop, rake
our dreams together in a pile, sit still
and listen for direction from echoes
of voices whirling until the morning fog
hanging over hollers burns off.
Then anyone with half an eye can see
white dogwoods growing wild
and valleys reverently staring up
at the mountain ranges
riding high.
Pat Durmon, 2012
Those who say the Ozarks
make them dizzy with its grandfather
mountains and twisting roads must not
have looked at the majestic bluffs—
soaring cathedrals—hosting the moon
and its light, the boulders they shoulder,
outcroppings upriver or peaks where
heaven meets earth in a golden October
glow. Surely they have not seen the caves
swallowed up inside cliffs, havens
with low ceilings hanging ominously.
The caverns here housed history:
baskets of corn, bowls for mush
and pine nuts, slabs of dried venison,
rattles, drums, flutes, pipes, water jars.
These mountains held enticing odors
from pots steaming over fires and sheltered
clans from howling, unforgiving winds
tearing through treetops like wild rivers
that flood, gush and roar through valleys
making us mountain folks stop, rake
our dreams together in a pile, sit still
and listen for direction from echoes
of voices whirling until the morning fog
hanging over hollers burns off.
Then anyone with half an eye can see
white dogwoods growing wild
and valleys reverently staring up
at the mountain ranges
riding high.
Pat Durmon, 2012