We wake to prehistory,
the data of our lives erased,
and crawl out of our seed pods.

Conifers wash over us, a trough
of balsam-scented green.

Last night a whip-poor-will was stuck
in the same groove for hours. Now

light through the forest canopy plays
chords of a Chopin Étude.

We rub our backs on calloused
hickory bark for the pleasure of it.

My people farmed these hills, dragging
stones from the earth's deep pockets,

inventing speech and ears to hear it.
Their horizon grew like a scar.

They died at home in a mist of pain,
anchored to their hickory beds, the beds

to their farms, farms to their fields,
fields to the rock-ribbed peaks and valleys.

We breathe the same air yet
our bones become alpenglow
morning mist, nothing.