heritage.

today, by chance, I came across this poem by James Still. I had to read it aloud three or four times to hear it. poetry does that to me. losing myself in the sounds of the words strung together and their place on the page is an experience entirely different from just "understanding" a poem.


I shall not leave these prisoning hills
Though they topple their barren heads to level earth
And the forests slide uprooted out of the sky.

Though the waters of Troublesome, of Trace Fork,
Of Sand Lick rise in a single body to glean the valleys,
To drown lush pennyroyal, to unravel rail fences;
Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust
And burns its strength into the blistered rock

I cannot leave. I cannot go away.

Being of these hills, being one with the fox
Stealing into the shadows, one with the new-born foal,
The lumbering ox drawing green beech logs to mill,
One with the destined feet of man climbing and descending,

And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.

Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond.


ahhh I love this valley. I'm so selfish, but I think I live in one of the loveliest places in the states. Despite my incurable desire for travel and adventure, I'm not sure if I'll ever find a place as beautiful and dear to me as these rolling hills.