This place; this wooded piedmont flowing gently down

amid ancient mountains compacting to their demise;

this place on this planet, in this solar system, in this memory

is my place of birth and ending. This place will eat my flesh; my bones.

This place; these stones, these trees, this red clay, these streams,

these gentle days will savor my taste and, without naming me,

compose an epitaph in rain and wind and blistering sun.