I remember driving,
descending into the Shenandoah Valley-
a volatile fate
disguised as a riverside cottage.
I remember hearing
the longing in a young man’s voice:
“And there’s a million things I haven’t done, just you wait.”
I remember my insides
resounding with such forceful agreement.
I feared for my heart
leaping toward my throat,
threatening to pour from my mouth
all the truth hidden behind
Empire apples, grist mills and burial books.
I drove toward Revolution
answering a Call
which had yet to be issued.
I drove toward Mountains.
I drove toward blood
I dispensed with the Tudor rose,
in favor of Ferguson rifles.
And I drove