Vito, Circa 1902 Poem by mimi brown

You went to the
top of the mountain
where the trees stood
aside to give you
space to dream.
Fir covered and rough,
where your fingers
have worked the soil
for centuries.
Long days working
the sweat from your brow,
your hands raw and
dirt encrusted,
but the fruit as pure
as your valley.

Now what comfort can I give?
Your mountain bare,
the trees naked,
your eyes closed.
All I have is
your name,
my life,
this poem.