Long ago father led me, all train trestle legs and elbows,
through Pisgah Forest on a day hike.
Near the turkey brush and mountain laurel, a hook, a tiny crook
of Pisgah River had run dry.
Cracked and segmented from lack of God’s grace,Momma said.
We walked the parched branch past
Farlow Gap, beneath a parasol of Pignut Hickory
and Scarlet Oak trees.
I’m still all elbows, legs. My skin a segmented, dried out
creek bed. Age spots, like river rocks, lifting on the edges,
scatter about hook and crook, marking my time in the sun. The
drought of God’s grace.