I stride the gently sloping
foothills of the hollow,
Boots damp and darkened
by the morning dew.

Diminutive and insubstantial
beneath blue ridges.
Overhead, Grandfather mountain
stands sentinel;
His emerald peak
piercing gray-bottomed clouds
Hung like Caesar’s wreath
upon a royal head.

Orange, red, yellow –
relentless in their magnificence.
An ocean of autumn-dyed leaves
blanket the hills;
Like Momma’s prize quilts
at the summer fair.

Hickory-laced smoke
wafts thick and fragrant,
Drifting upward through
the alder and pine stands,
Like holy incense
blessing this hallowed ground

The meadows are dotted
with rusting memories
Broken tractors, refrigerators,
and dying cars
Sunlight glinting off shards
of broken ‘shine jugs

Shacks with slanting porches
and broken doors;
Crushed beneath the weight
of time and seasons
These hills wear poverty
like a badge of honor