For My Mother
Appalachian summers of childhood,
Smoky Mountain Memories,
Ripe watermelon juices trickle down,
Grandma's out picking blackberries,
Kids are down at the swimming hole,
swinging wildly of a ledge from a vine,
Mom and Dad are swinging on the front porch,
to a root-aged rhythm under a tall white pine,
Magnolia flowers scent the air,
Winged maple seeds twirl to the ground,
Papaw whittles away the time,
while bluebirds fill the air with sound,
In the woods the deer leap away,
Up the mountain black bears roam,
So stay on the path to the glade,
It will always lead back home,
Shaded mountain laurels blossoms,
are blown down to the creek by the wind,
where cup-like they float over spillways,
following their new journey to its end,
A secluded waterfall nestled in the vale,
is good for a humid August afternoon,
Lying on the cool ferns along the bank,
it's hard to believe that nightfall will be soon,
Find a fairy cricle of mushrooms,
the spirits of the forest are near,
The willow tree sways its lithesome limbs,
announcing that midsummer magic is here,
Stars prick through the painted sky,
A breeze shakes the chimes into a gentle song,
Old men smoke pipes in their rocking chairs,
Time passes slowly and the season is long,
The moon rises in the warm night,
while children catch and release fireflies,
Wrap up in the family quilt and sleep,
The crickets will sing lullabies.