even the decayed fencing on the bank
holds to the hair of morning glory vines,
and the vines cling to the steady earth
Some hold to nothing but birdsong,
long notes that are simply here and gone,
small splits, and lapses of wild sounds
there is a bell nearby swinging
on a cast iron loop, waiting for the rope
to swing it into a shuddering throb
or a clarity of pealed silver
I can't seem to hold on to a thing
lastingness becomes a mere word
I am slow music in an open air, and invisible
I touch a hermit's heart and move on.

Phibby Venable is an Appalachian poet and writer whose works appear in numerous anthologies, magazines, e-zines, and journals, both nationally and internationally. She lives in Abingdon, Virginia & works in animal rescue. Twice nominated for the Pushcart prize, her two most recent volumes of poetry are -- Uncertain Ships, and Bones Of A Generous Woman.