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Near the end we return to our birthplace, enduring Eden where we plucked the fruit that eased us from these low mountains to feast on other forbidden delicacies. Neon lights do not disgrace our hollow, only a dim bulb that lets us feel more than we see. An oak crashes at midnight and interrupts our shallow sleep. Cardinals search for precious seeds under last night's snow. Wine-colored rocks and scattered feathers show our struggle to be normal and holy. We say, "When your time comes, you go. That's that!" We will end where we began, at our Place: dirt, trees, creeks, and birds that stay the winter. --Sam L. Martin
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 2004
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