These hills are made of magic.
They spread their rolling greenness
into the corners of your heart
like the tentacles of Kudzu.
Twining with the memories of my youth
they etch themselves into the mind’s retina.
The lone tree above
a pile of rocks
in the middle of a sloping
cow pasture,
my great-grandmother's house
the cherry tree out front
the mound of earth
covering her carved out pantry
where we used to play king of the hill
the ball field
where I slid into home plate.
I see them now
from the driver's seat
of my little red Nissan
pecking along these winding country roads
but my heart sees them
from the back of dad's
pickup
his words reminding us to search
the hills for the Indian the signs warned of
Watch for Fallen Rocks
the wind swirling my hair into tiny whips
that beat at my face
until it was numb
As I pull in Dad’s driveway
I realize
I have remembered me home.
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Author: LeeAnn Patrick
LeeAnn writes: "My Name is LeeAnn Patrick I live with my husband, five children and one grandchild in King NC. Most of my poetry involves my family as dedication, subject or inspiration. After finding the market for teachers non-existent, I found a part-time spot at a retail store. My work has appeared in tinfoildresses and The Saint's Placenta."