Dark woods fill the horizon with
The frost inches across the weathered fields
to cover the signs of spring
The highways curve to form
salt covered travels
And the Appalachians tower over
These are hills I grew up with
Barely able to recall them
had I not seen them again
Red, sweet polish flavors in bologna
my taste buds had to be reintroduced
Temperatures below 30, 20, 15
Hit my gloveless fingers, my exposed nose
The backseat rattles.
My cramped legs
beg to stretch, to see the passing country
that shaped me, formed me, made me.
These are the hills I grew up with
Gliding before my molded eyes
They stand as still as they always have
Strong. Weathered. Ancient.
But the roadway bends and
the car surges.
These are the hills
I pass by
Danielle Page is an emerging writer from Chattanooga, Tennessee. She hopes to pursue a doctorate in rhetoric and composition to foster a love for writing in college classrooms. When she’s not reading up on composition theory, she’s scribbling in her moleskine journal or hiking a mountainous trail. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Whale Road Review , Speaking of Marvels, and Pacific Poetry.