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Vilas, N.C./31 October 1981

Vilas, N.C./31 October 1981 VILAS, N.C./31 OCTOBER 1981 (for Isaac Milton) I cross a bridge I have seen before and turn into the gap of valley where the sun laces ridges with cinnabar, and come to the hill by Lori Storie-Pahlitzsch where they lay under mountain counterpane when stars looked fractured and planets, red and green, trailed across the sky, before the gold meridian, before Grandfather Milton's birth. Here, he made a dipper, carved from a single piece of locust when the nearest person not his kinsman was twelve miles away by sinuous steepness at the end of the switchback road. I climb the nearer hill and the farther, higher rise, thinking to touch the autumn sky to bring back a piece of strongest blue to hold for warming and filling. Where the cabin was are ochre weeds and the wide, stone steps, and the spring. An old woman, not my kin, watches over the hills now and views, she says, each day the red sun and yellow moon dance, and drinks each day from the spring; she has a dipper of silvery tin. Other visions lie outside her grip now, or need: and mine some days is only to touch our hills again or to drink from the locust dipper. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Vilas, N.C./31 October 1981

Appalachian Review , Volume 10 (4) – Jan 8, 1982

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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

VILAS, N.C./31 OCTOBER 1981 (for Isaac Milton) I cross a bridge I have seen before and turn into the gap of valley where the sun laces ridges with cinnabar, and come to the hill by Lori Storie-Pahlitzsch where they lay under mountain counterpane when stars looked fractured and planets, red and green, trailed across the sky, before the gold meridian, before Grandfather Milton's birth. Here, he made a dipper, carved from a single piece of locust when the nearest person not his kinsman was twelve miles away by sinuous steepness at the end of the switchback road. I climb the nearer hill and the farther, higher rise, thinking to touch the autumn sky to bring back a piece of strongest blue to hold for warming and filling. Where the cabin was are ochre weeds and the wide, stone steps, and the spring. An old woman, not my kin, watches over the hills now and views, she says, each day the red sun and yellow moon dance, and drinks each day from the spring; she has a dipper of silvery tin. Other visions lie outside her grip now, or need: and mine some days is only to touch our hills again or to drink from the locust dipper.

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1982

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