For half a hundred years I’ve had the blues.
Greens, too, and rusty yellow, brown, fox-grape purple—
Appalachian blues, I reckon, stitched and sewn
In seasons, patterns, ripples, lines.
In folded, smoky layers, stretched away to kingdom come—
Secret hollows; hidden. Dappled daylight barely knows
The way to find its way between the pines.
Rough roads climbing over ridges, clinging
Coiled and breathless; falling down in loops and spirals to the
River. Faint of heart need not apply, nor
Flatlanders, neither. I know what’s mine.
Strum these mountain blues across my heart-strings—
They have a music all their own. Step-clogs set the porch on fire;
Sharp-heeled thunder from distant lands, passed down
The years from olden times.
Yes, my true-love’s a blue-eyed daisy; sweeter than
The sweetest dream. Drowsy, dusty, Appalachia: older than I’ll ever be.
Rejoice! Brooks rustle, laughing, ever-green; all
The hills I’m over keep their shine.