Hills

Half-hidden hills in summer haze
Call my name and question me. . .

“Where have you been?”
“Why have you stayed away so long?”

Those hills are strangers to me.
I am not from there but rather here.
They seem to know me much better than I know them
I’ve only ridden over Big Hill a few times in a car.
Why, then, do they call my name?

Why is the sight of those green trees reaching
Toward the sky as familiar as the fingers
On my own hand?
– Reaching.

For what I can’t name. “Mountain folk are queer,”
Mamaw always said, But I couldn’t say for sure. They live
Tucked back in deep hollows,
Silent reflections of the hills around them.
They are as much a part of that place
As limestone and black oak.
I do not know them but I understand them.
My spirit hears the same whisper as theirs,
On the breath of a breeze, it beckons me home.

Some say God is in the trees.
Someday--
if I’m not here where I ought to be . . .

You might find me in the mountains.

Copyright © 2007 Emily Burns