by Will Lane
A low hill must be your tower,
With a garden dug in its side.
Sharp scent of blackberries crushed in a pan
In a room that looks at a mountain.
Wet winds subside, damp shines
On streaked windowpanes.
Like a hawk riding a ridge of fresh heat
Your great heart floats and complains.
We’re hidden in the things we need:
Dark berry, mountain, woman, sleep.
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Will Lane was a carpenter and builder for more than a decade before graduating from Gettysburg College with a major in classical Greek. He has worked as a community activist; photographer; social worker; parent educator for Head Start; and teacher of writing and literature. He served a year as Assistant Provost of Gettysburg College before returning to the English Department as a Lecturer. He holds an M.A. from the Graduate Institute at St. John’s in Annapolis, Maryland, and lives with his wife, Anne, in rural Adams County, Pennsylvania, not far from where he was born. His recent chapbook, In the Barn of the God, was published by Mad River Press in Richmond, Massachusetts.
