The Ozark Mountains are the oldest on this planet, and Dave Malone writes with a soul as old as the hills. At times rubbed raw and wrapped in plaid flannel, then with a change of seasons he pedals the wheels of love of body, of loss, of sensuality, jazz, laughter, landscape and strawberry blondes. He's not shy of any expression, any season of the heart or these mountains.
Poetry at its best is a shape-shifter, and this is poetry at its best. It sits on the stack of favored books beside my bed, and each reading of poems now familiar brings an experience so new I wonder if I'd forgotten to read that poem the first time through. Like the hollows and precarious cliffs of the Ozarks, Malone's writing can make you stumble and fall into hidden places of the heart and rugged humanity, stripped of big city pretensions. As the seasons change the color of the sky, the blush of love written with such honesty changes the color of one's complexion. But he's never vulgar, just an honest melody of the body in love.
Everything moves too fast in this new world. It's a welcome relief slowing down in poetry worth the time, time and time again.