Henry Caville 111
Wellknown Ace
A quiet gravity pulls at the bone,
Whispering names of the soil we have known.
No matter how far our wild rivers may run,
We yearn for the hills where our breath was begun.
Back to the porch where the shadows grow long,
Back to the rhythm of yesterday’s song.
We trace our way home through the dark and the rain,
To touch the sweet roots that will hold us again
Whispering names of the soil we have known.
No matter how far our wild rivers may run,
We yearn for the hills where our breath was begun.
Back to the porch where the shadows grow long,
Back to the rhythm of yesterday’s song.
We trace our way home through the dark and the rain,
To touch the sweet roots that will hold us again
