The
day sky
turned gold lamé, god must have brushed back his hair. I couldn’t help but smirk at the moon.
We slogged up an unkempt bootlegger path that sloughed through slug-moss, like sweatdrops mazing the thickened eyebrows of an old man. The varicose roots of blackjack oaks offered footholds to pilgrim’s progress. Change crisped the woods, and quickened her geriatric colors. Gingersnap and burnt orange held an autumn revival, and danced in the spirit, like the gifts I have witnessed arise from young hearts. A polished creek stone wooed his stream off a cliff, to a mountain elf’s Ruby Falls tune, killing her softly—
with his
song.
Kevin Heaton writes in South Carolina. His
fourth chapbook, "Chronicles" is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
His work has appeared in The Catalonian Review, elimae, The Raleigh
Review, and many others. He is a listed poet at KansasPoets.com.
Autumn brings spectacular bursts of color
to the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, especially at the Chimney
Tops,
where a breathtaking picture postcard awaits. Thirty years ago, my wife
and I were living in bodies young enough to maneuver the arduous two
mile trail along a mountain stream, and up to one of the summits. My
hope is that this poem will transport you to the same place, where our
thoughts will forever linger.
