This morning I looked out the front door and saw climbing up the branches in the front yard a Rose of Sharon, reaching for the sun beginning to show itself over the mountains. I remembered seeing a mountain cabin years ago entangled in blooming Rose of Sharons, deserted no doubt, but still inhabited in my imagination by a young mountain woman dreaming of escape. The poem became "Rose of Sharon" in BLACK SHAWL.
So I went walking the backyard for the other Sharons I knew must be blooming and found this white blossom, the only one on the bush, and above it sky barely visible up the ridge.
Coming back inside, I passed my smiling pig with, yes, more peturnias planted in it. I would have real pigs, if I could. I am immensely fond of swine in nearly all breeds save the human kind, which Horace Kephart called "the two-legged pig."
A REMINDER: DON'T FORGET TO READ ROB NEUFELD'S REVIEW IN THE ASHEVILLE CITIZEN-TIMES TOMORROW. YOU WILL FIND SOME POETS YOU'LL LIKE.
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