Red dirt never washes away—blue hills
Pocked by long grey scars from mines and slurry
Pools trembling, always, over someone’s home,
Some holler’s elementary school, green rivers,
Blue, brown rivers all running toward the old New,
Its deep gorge filled in autumn with so many
Red fingers pressed to the sky, like a revival,
Each candle lit by boys hoping to never be kissed.
Snowshoes out of dinner pails, that Appalachian frugality—
Making something out of nothing because
Our fathers took these mountains and turned into
Nothing. Coats filled with leaves, each stone a home
Cracked open. We are always searching for light
And finding a hoof print, a heartbeat, the moment
A hill disappears and the tunnels of your blood
Vibrate a golden song just a little too late.