The Road Wound Upward
· The Atlantic
I dreamed of the mountains again
and felt the rising joy
as the road wound upward
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through the dark woods
then villages rank with silage
and spattered with cow manure
all the needs of the body
I didn’t know any better
geraniums a vibration
against the ancient chalets
no one else around
the clattering of water
in log troughs unheard
at that hour of afternoon
and I felt the names on my tongue
Huémoz Chésières Barboleusaz
as the view opened out
with the high snowfields beyond
almost too bright to bear
It was my life you see
and everything still to do
It was spring there was a path
the meadow full of wildflowers
leading to a little cemetery
I passed a man and a boy
sitting beside the road
they raised their hands to me
This poem appears in the July 2026 print edition.