Black Balsam Ridge

Up here, soul is

living, moving, being.

Birds three inches from

their songs growing in

ever-widening circles

the wind laid down

last night.

Living, moving, being.

Neon moss sculpting

the shape of rain 

across pungent, prayer

rug pine needles.

Living, moving, being.

A single mother who

worked extra shifts so

her children could see

sunrise from the edge

of a tree line and dream

of something more

than survival.

Living, moving, being

up here, we are.