Black Mountain

The mountains never ask my name. 
I'm the flute in the fiddlers' circle
finding where the wild music lives,

 

learning mountain ways, breathing a wild flute

from the choir loft on those tame and quiet Sundays—

he doesn’t know the children call him Knuckles 

for his stiff hands that offer stiff blessings—

the kind of man who needs a thorn

to rankle below the skin, to clarify 

the call for stiffness on a Sunday,

a thorn to straighten his posture,

thin his lips, point his finger back to Eve 

who lacked discipline, offering fruit in a manner unedifying—

how could I possibly edify, making my way alone,

and up the mountain at that? 

Sometimes a banjo and bass to join the fiddles,

the whiskered men kind to the pipe visiting from below,

never asking my name or why I’m there, 

finding where the wild music lives

and how to pull it from the air. 

                                                                               July, 2012

                                                                               Black Mountain, North Carolina