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Falling

Falling Though we are born Clutch-fisted, when we die We spread our Palmes, and let the world slip by --William Austin, 1587­1634 He buried his father in March. The preacher preached hellfire--it was that long ago--the creeks were all in flood and the sky had surrendered to the lion. The organ moaned its tinny, electric pulse and the chrysanthemums were cloying and sour. He had hung his head and stepped outside for a cigarette. Although he didn't really laugh, the sky did suddenly empty its rain and the wind pull up its skirts and run free, rising into roaring. And far to the west, the black surf of storm stumbled, and a blue seam of horizon lit with pink and yellow, spread itself above the tree line. He said it might have been God saving himself. It was March. Miracles could be expected. Some years found Easter as well as Good Friday inside its ragged arms. He went walking. Found himself on a swinging bridge staring at the heaving hump of the stream where it divided around rocks still glazed with winter. He told this story only once, how he got in a lot of trouble--leaving the funeral like http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Though we are born Clutch-fisted, when we die We spread our Palmes, and let the world slip by --William Austin, 1587­1634 He buried his father in March. The preacher preached hellfire--it was that long ago--the creeks were all in flood and the sky had surrendered to the lion. The organ moaned its tinny, electric pulse and the chrysanthemums were cloying and sour. He had hung his head and stepped outside for a cigarette. Although he didn't really laugh, the sky did suddenly empty its rain and the wind pull up its skirts and run free, rising into roaring. And far to the west, the black surf of storm stumbled, and a blue seam of horizon lit with pink and yellow, spread itself above the tree line. He said it might have been God saving himself. It was March. Miracles could be expected. Some years found Easter as well as Good Friday inside its ragged arms. He went walking. Found himself on a swinging bridge staring at the heaving hump of the stream where it divided around rocks still glazed with winter. He told this story only once, how he got in a lot of trouble--leaving the funeral like

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Nov 12, 2014

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