This breath that awakens the overhead reach
of the long-leaf pines,
double fistfuls of forearm green that unwind
in their dawn drawl dance;
this breath exhaled last night within the mist
of high-ridge spruce and Fraser fir
to whisper all the long dark decline
down deer-nibbled coves
and inhale wet kisses from tumble falls,
creek jag, river splash,
to roll and doze and curlique the piedmont swale
to these sand hills at daybreak—
this breath lifts arms that stretch and gape
in the lick of sun
and stirs up a rush, a sigh, a satisfied
draft drawn into the wanderer
drawn distant from upland fence-row and laurel den,
maple stand, poplar grove,
drawn into tree shadow deep blue as the ridge
where his high plateau sails the sky;
this wanderer draws breath to swell chest and heart,
scent of pitch, scent of stone,
not miles or longing or emptiness but filled
with this breath of home.
