Blue Ridge

The Blue Ridge line

hides you, years

lost in the folds and creases

of a mother's body,

her valleys 

carved by rivers.

Nestled in her side

villages, 

along dirt roads

built for moonshining.

Broken stills 

hidden by leaves,

babies with 

Mountain Dew teeth

and colicky bellies

burping up evergreen

sprigs-

peace offering to the

land they were born with.

A peace offering 

to the humid air

and rampant dew.

The hunting dogs sleeping

at your feet.

Ten thousand slams

in the screen door,

generations of scuff

and dirt in the

floorboards of Depression-era

glory. 

Here we are the hill folk,

feasting on canned goods

in root cellars,

dancing with barren feet

in the yard under clotheslined 

linens. 

Resting our head

at the foot of the Appalachians,

sweet at home in the Blue Ridge-

we are living off the scraps

of existence, living with

the sound of gnats and rusted

engines. The smell

of bacon fat on the stove.

Here we peg up our boots,

to lie under ten million stars

shining without knowledge

of where,

just where you are.

The anonymity 

of mountains,

and here

you exist.