And the mountains rose like the prayer of old souls,
carved not by hands but by the sighs of God.
In the hush between the pine and fog
the earth sings in the tongue of ancestors,
a song of coal, of calloused palms,
of silence deeper than sorrow.
The wind speaks, and the people listen
not just with ears, but deep inside.
They do not own the land; they are the land,
as the stream is not beside the stone
but within it.
Oh, child of hollers, do not seek glory
beyond the ridge.
Your truth lies in the smoke
that curls from a chimney at dusk,
in the rocking chair that creaks
with your grandmother’s rhythm.
For in these hills, time does not pass
it lingers
like love
that never learned to speak
yet always knew your name.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
Keep reading
More stories from Tim Carmichael and writers in Poets and other communities.
Violence Begets
"Any last words, cowboy?" "None you'd understand, sodbuster." "Funny. That's Marshall Sodbuster to you. But I meant some last nugget that would help us in the adjudication of the myriad offenses counted against you and your gang. I wasn't asking for penitence."
By Adam Diehl6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
That link between man and land? I wish more could appreciate that, especially where to view it is to feel part of it and the privilege of experiencing it.
Wow. Beautiful! Thank you for writing this.
Terrific! I love the sentiment and the lilt. Great, as usual!
Beautiful. Those of us who know the land will always be able to hear it ❤️