APPALACHIAN MOUNTAIN SYMPHONY
I live inside a symphony, every instrument unique;
from towering tempest to rustling mountain meadow.
Appalachian song – each note perfection – fills my soul.
I know the names of the musicians,
the artists who create the harmonies of my childhood,
a dazzling array.
The woodwinds, sweet and melodic, ride the wind
and light on oak and hemlock branches to chatter, chitter, and sing.
Bluebirds like sky, goldfinches like sun flit for flies and thistle,
all the while intoning like flute and pipe.
The string section serenades the mountain air nightly-
chirps of crickets strumming beneath starlit skies.
Percussionists tumble down from the mountaintops.
White-capped crystal water plays piano keys.
The Land of Waterfalls roars like bass, snare, and cymbal.
I live inside a symphony, the impending silence bleak
as each musician lost in time devastates the masterpiece-
notes lost forever and replaced
by the beat of hammer and nail, the scratch of pen on contracts,
the steady tide of progress.
Perhaps if others heard the music, the Blue Ridge melodies-
the woodwinds, strings, percussion, every section, every song-
the tide would turn to preservation, protection of the marvel;
and the symphony which surrounds my home, my heart
would be forever sacred,
played endlessly in concert halls of mountainside and river valley.
I live inside a symphony, every instrument unique;
from towering tempest to rustling mountain meadow.
Appalachian song – each note perfection – fills my soul.
I know the names of the musicians,
the artists who create the harmonies of my childhood,
a dazzling array.
The woodwinds, sweet and melodic, ride the wind
and light on oak and hemlock branches to chatter, chitter, and sing.
Bluebirds like sky, goldfinches like sun flit for flies and thistle,
all the while intoning like flute and pipe.
The string section serenades the mountain air nightly-
chirps of crickets strumming beneath starlit skies.
Percussionists tumble down from the mountaintops.
White-capped crystal water plays piano keys.
The Land of Waterfalls roars like bass, snare, and cymbal.
I live inside a symphony, the impending silence bleak
as each musician lost in time devastates the masterpiece-
notes lost forever and replaced
by the beat of hammer and nail, the scratch of pen on contracts,
the steady tide of progress.
Perhaps if others heard the music, the Blue Ridge melodies-
the woodwinds, strings, percussion, every section, every song-
the tide would turn to preservation, protection of the marvel;
and the symphony which surrounds my home, my heart
would be forever sacred,
played endlessly in concert halls of mountainside and river valley.
