This world is not a safe place,
But good comes around,
Like a young man
Leaving a Cumberland holler
In Nineteen Forty-Seven,
Going north to Flint
To put pickups together,
But never knowing
That what he was building
With each bolt and rivet
Was a place, safe from
Wind and rain and sun and snakes,
For a brood of titmice
Back home in the mountains.
Comments
No posts