For my people
I take solace in considering the age
of this valley, the way water left its mark on Appalachia,long before Peabody sunk a shaft, Chevron augured the shale or ODOT dynamited roadways through steep rock.
So much here depends upon
a green corn stalk, a patched barn roof,
weather, the Lord, community.We’ve rarely been offered a hand that didn’t destroy.I pen my poems, every word a sepulcher, every syllable a stone rolled away.