Echoes of Appalachia

Reflections from the Ridge

I am the hush of early morning mist,
brushing soft against your cheek
like a mother’s worn apron,
smelling of cornmeal and spring water.

These mountains do not shout—
they speak in seed, in shale,
in the groan of a mule
and the silence after.

You walk my roads,
and I watch you with the eyes
of dogwood, poplar, and soot-stained hands.
I am not past—I am present,
a rhythm still heard
between fiddle tunes and funeral hymns.

Children leave me,
carry pieces of me in their marrow—
coal dust, gospel, moonshine songs.
But I stay,
holding quilts of red clay and sorrow,
patched with hope stitched crooked.

Here, we’ve learned
to live between landslides and lullabies,
to draw dignity from spring water
and stories long told on porches,
smoke rising with memory.

Call me poor if you must,
but not empty.
I am Appalachia’s breath—
rough, resolute,
and real.

Written by Tim Carmichael