I dreamed of the mountains again and felt the rising joy as the road wound upward
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.
The post The Road Wound Upward appeared first on The Atlantic.
