Appalachian winter

The scent of fresh coffee and a Marlboro

Intermingle with the smell of fresh winter

Creeping down the mountain holler,

Finding purchase along the kudzu invading the hillside just the same

The harvest came and went

As my father did with his work

But the steaming pond and frost hiss

Offered no signs of rest

For winter’s toll does not operate in exacts

And the bulwark of hearth and home required steady tender

My father, and his father’s father, knew all too well

What the soft cold did portend

As the dead leaves, bereft of their color, served as canvas for frosted reliefs

My father would chain his tires

To remain free from the holler’s wintry prison,

And give us our milk and bread from old Creech’s

All that, I took for granted, as my youth gave way to age, my autumn giving way to long winter

The smell of sour gas that lit the fireplace

Hung heavy through the wood paneled home

That stood, lonely as it were, amongst the frosted pines

The last bastion of warmth to be had for miles

In a valley who’s trees became naked, laying bare its hidden secrets

Appalachian winters inspired many a song

From the hearts of the indigenous and the unpracticed alike

For bluegrass becomes bluer when painted in frost

And blue souls become bluer still

But I’ll remember the smell of Marlboro and coffee

Each time winter’s chill reminds me

That I’m no longer home,

And haven’t been for a very long time.