At the top of Spruce Hill,
just before the highway
plunges into the valley,
the wide sweep of mountains
gathers me in to its shadow
and silence, holds me,
until I am ready to fall
with the turning of poplar
and oak. Through the windshield,
even the thin rain that takes on
gold light from the sun in its falling
is fuel for the burning.
Reprinted from Steerage, by Milligan Professor Emeritus
of English Bert Stern, published by Ibbetson Street Press.