Mountain Main Streets

Dear Main Street,

It’s always a pleasure. 
Your light, I’m convinced, filtered
For movie-making moments that
I hope

Are sometimes caught 
And I hope, most often, 

left alone
To grow and nourish a proper nostalgia.

Your sidewalks—an extension of my 
Living room, my kitchen table,
My desk…
Which room to visit today?
Which of your faces and feelings 
Shall I wrap my hours within
For this particular moment? 
This hour?
This life. 

I’ve beheld you change. 
Your wildflowers crumple 
Beneath the weight
Of two-story skyscrapers and 
Hotels for faces I will never know.

I hope

The light doesn’t change, 
That it remains warm, soft, 
A blanket for the mountain souls
You so carefully warden. 

I hope

That early mornings, 
The scent of coffee rising
From your myriad shops will 
Always welcome.

Which to choose,
Which room in which to tarry…
The faces and walls and walks 
And chairs and tables and voices
Of You.

Our hearth and heart.