The hickory by the fence line
has stood here longer
than I've been walking this land.
I come back to it
after years away,
place my hand on the bark,
feel the permanence there.
What grounds me
is this ridge,
the way fog settles in the holler,
the path worn smooth
by my own returning.
The garden plot
where I learned patience,
how seeds wait in darkness
before they break through.
Walls built by hands I never knew,
still holding the hillside,
still marking the boundary.
What carries me forward
is the pull toward the next valley,
the need to see
what's beyond this slope.
Cultures that show me
other ways of living,
other landscapes
where roots dig different.
The restlessness that comes
each spring,
wanting to move
even as I'm planting.
The hickory doesn't struggle
with this division.
Roots go deeper
while branches climb higher.
The same sap
feeds them both.
I'm learning
to trust that,
how staying feeds leaving,
how leaving teaches
what's worth keeping.
The work is letting
both happen,
the way the tree
grows whole
by pulling two directions
at once.
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.
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By Heather Hubler6 days ago in Interview
Comments (1)
I loved this so much! Hickories are so pretty and you've done them justice in this poem. I love the concept of growing in both directions.