Up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where Ott Street meets Market Lane,
I have stories buried in a cemetery.
Stories I’ve never heard and stories I wish I hadn’t.
I thought I left them there, sealed up with pillows and roses,
But they sank low, low, into the limestone and that fresh underground
And down they came.
Sinking into these salty marshes
Where they found me.
Soaking in through my soles,
They stacked straight through my spine
And burst into the base of my skull.
Just visiting, I’m sure. But how did they find me?
They’ve come such a long, long way.
They don’t even like it here.
But maybe it’s me
That they want.
I stop. And think. They stick thick to my heart.
Pausing a beat. Panicking me.
So I dig in the backyard, to put them back where they belong.
With dirt and dust.
Closing my eyes.
Laying in bed.
Breathing in deep.
But those stories from Ott Street keep following me.
This is a poem that I have already shared on my blog but thought that I’d re-share it for my new followers. This poem has a very special place and meaning for me. Many of my family and ancestors are buried in the mountains of Virginia and I often felt called to their peaks.