To wind that blows from better days

with the scent of mint and honeysuckle,

I thank you for this breath of fresh air

in weather long past prediction.

 

To sun that sets into the ocean

whose water does not dowse,

I warm my hands tonight

on the campfire you set today.

 

To rain that cleans and cools

the wounds and thirsts for more,

from cupped hands I drink

my limit of clear waterfall.

 

To all elements, all hungers,

may I learn to give what you need

and fair portion of what you want.

 

To the earth that bears us,

I mourn the scars of our legacy

but thank you for the home we share

atop your weathered body.

 

 

by Robert S. King

 

Robert S. King, a native Georgian, now lives in the mountains near Hayesville, NC. His poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, including California Quarterly, Chariton Review, Hollins Critic, Kenyon Review, Lullwater Review, Main Street Rag, Midwest Quarterly, Negative Capability, Southern Poetry Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review. He has published three chapbooks (When Stars Fall Down as Snow, Garland Press 1976; Dream of the Electric Eel, Wolfsong Publications 1982; and The Traveller’s Tale, Whistle Press 1998). His full‐length collections are The Hunted River and The Gravedigger’s Roots, both in 2nd editions from FutureCycle Press, 2012; and One Man’s Profit from Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013.

 

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