“A Dream of Blue Sky Air” by Pamela West-Finkle

 

I came to the mountains to touch blue sky,

And bathe in bluestone waters—

To be free of fettered chains

Of lost illusion

And compromise,

In a sea of solemn faces

Where I saw only concrete and steel

Stabbing the hazed yellow dome

Like cubical knives

 

I am not fashioned to be

A slave to man’s wantonness,

Nor his greed, his malice

And his façade of virtue.

I am at home in these mountains—

The rivers of humanity’s consciousness

Course through these valleys,

Hills and hollers.

The world could learn from

The stories of survival the rocks tell

Of seasons of hardship,

Famine,

And strife

In the hands of its stonecutters,

Loggers, and rail men—

Of wives and daughters,

Sons lost to war.

They sing to me—

The stones, the trees, the wrens.

I listen.

They tell me of peace

Found only in springs

Of clear conscience.

They tell me of hope,

Found growing in

Hard pan gardens

They tell me of strength

Found in the hands

Of those who dig deep

Into rocky earth

Grounded in a life

Pure, sweet, and resilient.

Pioneers in Simplicity—

A dream of blue sky air.~