Mountain Home

by Shellyne Urban

The smell of pine and the ocean brings back

memories of life under the redwoods trees.

Spirals of smoke from wood stoves rise in black

night air while winds howl branches sway with ease.

I miss the fog creeping over your crest

as it slowly cleared for warm sunny days.

Wild blackberry plants lined our road and lest

you feel forgotten, I am here to gaze.

As the path curves and climbs into your soul

I grasp the bar, knowing you are a beast.

Three generations made you their home.

Just me left to look at your majesty.

I am a mountain girl, always will be.

All I ever need is in front of me.

Santa Cruz Mountains at dusk.