Roan is a mountain.
In Tennessee.
I saw as clearly in person
as if it were a dream.
I heard this little boy speak.
In the rusty hinge of a screen door.
Squeak.
He called out to me. Daddy.
Four years before he was born.
Little Mountain
Poem from before Roan was
My son is set to be born.
I feel no insecurity in informing you that he will never, not ever, not even once
be yours.
There are so few places like that on earth.
Where belief becomes so close to being fact.
I call something that can’t be owned my own.
Which is another way to say
I’m someone’s dad.
Writer Actor Farmer 