Courtils, France, in Spring when the daffodils are
bursting forth between the roots, finding moisture,
drinking mist. The shallow bay there is quiet,
beyond the mountain.
Purple clouds beyond the edge billow shyly,
flowing, endless, into the pearly night sky.
Stars creep, lofty, noiselessly crowning heaven
beyond the mountain.
Stillness finds me there without kith or kin or
language. Stranger, stalking a strange land, fearing
nothing, for, within my heart, I know I’m home
beyond the mountain.
god america i 