She resists
impulse
to check her map,
prefers instead
to see
how long
she might
withstand
controlled terror
of not knowing

where she is
on paper.


“Fire and Rain”—
radio
lulls her
in and out of
beautiful yesterdays
that become distant as
sun oozes
down tired mountain face,
sends snaking shadows
scurrying

to catch early
Autumn leaves.


Aged wisdom
lifts like fog
off these
Carolina hills,
blows on behind her,
a whisper carried
across the valley
on the last cloud
off this mountain
paradise.

She sings a song,
sad and sweet,


Melody reminds
her of one who
was there,
present
in her pain,
steady as rain,
some rhythm
of grace
between them.
The ones

we remember
live on.


Lost within
herself,
this comfort
propels her on.
She reaches for
compass, then
smiles,
realizes
she already
knows the way.

She always thought
that she’d see him again.

© 2002, Dawn Richerson

Art - Digital Designs by Dawn, Copyright 2002

This is a poem written after leaving a writer's conference in the summer of 1999. It was a much-needed respite and place of learning, but as I left I felt that nothing would ever be the same. I had no idea about the origin of that feeling, which came on the heels of the most mystical experience of my life (a few days earlier on the mountaintop). About a week after returning home, I was devastated to learn that the one person who meant the most to me in my life had passed away during my absence. I later learned from one of his best friends that Jim had died on the same morning of my strange mountaintop experience. This particular poem is part of a group I'm preparing for my next e-chapbook, titled "Driving Without a Map."

The link below will take you to Dawn's published passion-powered poetry e-chapbooks. You can also search at this Amazon address: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-form/104-5294762-4489535/creativerevoluti.