Off a path once for wagons and sturdy

legs, now rutted and rocked into a trail,

I find the source, the spring-head spoken of,

sleeping in deep shaded vines, secreted

by a low, sweating stone surround, finely

encased in velvety/emeralded moss

and guarded by pale bluebell sentinels.

The only evidence of human touch,

the surround and haunting creaks beneath leaves

of roof/tin’s leaf/muffled thud underfoot.

The jeweled woods thrust spiraling fern/fronds up

in rampant arrays of prideful bearings

uncoiling toward the dappled pale light.

Minute individuals of Bird-foot

violet and Indian Pipe peer from

bases of old-growth pine and giant popular.

Mountain laurel, head high, darkening the shade

boast purest porcelain blossoms of white.

•

I came searching for origins of myth:

family history told of this place,

of skimpy raisings and violent pasts.

Of one, if word of mouth can be believed,

strung by his neck in this, his yard, in front

of family for desertion from the war

that cleaved what little harmony was here.

Voices still cry from beneath the humus

some say, but I only hear flora sway

and taste the spring’s trickling, cooling release.