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Finch Holes: Poetry

High Lonesome

Nights like these I’m like a bluegrass song,

rolling twang that threatens to break apart, held

only by the fiddle, whose long stitch weaves

a low hill under a high moon, slouching even as it reaches

up toward the heavens.

 

It’s been said these songs can only look backwards

with voices that close around the heart-in-the-throat,

a lump stuck in sad pulse, each beat bracing

for the sweet red of homegrown tomatoes

but finding only dusty fields.

 

Tonight, under the weight of a cold stove and closed doors,

I call forth the once-was, the might-have, the what-could-have-been.

I gaze out the window, yearning to yawn forward and tumble toward

a road that winds a wheel within a wheel,

cleaving mud and gravel and bone and time,

spinning always homeward.


Photo by moominsean

One Response to High Lonesome

  1. Jerrill Vandeventer August 12, 2015 at 11:26 am #

    Tory Pearman is my all time favorite poet. Her work is excellent and so down to earth, true from the heart. These feeling are right on even though she is my daughter. I am so very proud of her!

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