In the hush of mountain air, where time moves slow, Where funerals once danced to a different song, A tapestry of life, in shadows cast long, Echoes of a past, where memories grow. When I was young, the mountains held a tale, Of neighbors' hands cleaning, hearts so grand, Food and warmth shared, a close-knit band, A vigil through the night, a community's veil. Around a barrel fire, men would stand and share, Moonshine whispers, and tales of days gone by, While inside, women's laughter would fly, On wings of recipes, gossip, and care. This gathering of souls, in honor of the dead, A time of communion, of love spread wide, From births to weddings, life's every stride, A collective breath, where communal ties are fed. But there was a time, in fifty-one or two, A funeral like none other, a silence profound, A young man lost, a mystery bound, In the heart of the mountains, where secrets brew. No recipes shared, no laughter in the air, Just a quiet mourning, a family alone, A wife bruised, a baby's soft moan, A community's effort to show they care. In the years that passed, the truth unfurled, A tale of violence, a life taken too soon, In the depths of the mountains, under the same moon, A story of justice, in a close-knit world. Yet, the spirit of the mountains, strong and kind, Remains unbroken, a testament to those days, When community was family, in all its ways, A reminder of the ties that bind. So here's to the mountains, and the tales they tell, Of life and death, of love's enduring spell, In the heart of the hills, where secrets dwell, A legacy of community, forever to dwell. March 19, 2023 Created by Mark Waldrop
