Friday, April 20, 2012

a different brightness

A dialect of melancholy
haunts the wild desire path
you shaped for us.
The country I loved is hidden,
its rustic hush a desolation.

The ghost of a thunderstorm
falls across this empty tombolo.
In its edges
I can hear a rising,
primeval and strange,
flooding the well you dug
with a different brightness.

--lks 2012

I got this found poem by putting together words from Barry Lopez's wonderful book Home Ground. 


  1. I can so relate to this beautiful poem. It really touched my heart. I love the word 'tombolo' and the way it tumbles off the tongue. Thank you for sharing this, Laura. xo

  2. I'm happy you liked it. The book I chose to pull this poem about lost love from was kind of a challenge. But it does have lots of gorgeous words for landforms and such, and I had never heard the word tombolo. Or the term desire path, either. Those are the little paths that people end up making across grassy areas as shortcuts.


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Georgia, United States
I live at the edge of the forest in a little town in the north Georgia mountains. I teach sixth grade Language Arts and am writing a memoir of sorts about family, spirituality, and narrative. I am also exploring a possible writing project having to do with contemporary lay contemplative experience and how it might be informed by the Desert Fathers and Mothers of early Christianity. I am a relatively recent convert to Roman Catholicism and an admirer of Pope Francis, Leonardo Boff, Joan Chittister, and Richard Rohr. I'm a Lay Associate of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit Monastery in Conyers, Georgia. I am interested in indigenous cultures, narratives, and spirituality, especially how these can inform my spirituality as a lay contemplative. I write, read, take pictures, play around with creating ephemera from paper and cloth and other organic things. I cook, hike, watch wildlife, and collect random bits of interesting oddness, both tangible and abstract. I am a seer of smallness and a caretaker of ridiculous minutiae. If you want, e-mail me at or