the seventh anniversary of our marriage
we spent the night in a van,
on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.
The land has many spirits.
They see us; they know us,
better than we know ourselves.
She sits by a bright, bare window
in a chair that has seen too much wet.
She is picking on days in her past,
fingers digging nervously into scalp.
In winter, bones of this land are laid bare,
exposed to drying wind and white blind of frost.
Cosmetic camouflage of kinder seasons are gone.
In winter, we see the strength of framework behind green.
I am not the woman people envy
in her confident, got-it-all-together stride.
I am not that person who is called to offer prayer
in a gathering of Christians.