Words Previously Unsaid to the Mountains

I miss the verdant overgrowth that took apart the roads and houses,

where simple flowers, vines, and trees, would take back from usurping man.

Water rushed in great expanse, though from the peaks it trickled down

as sun would heat the sleeping earth to streams, and brooks, and rivers,

finally cascading down, roaring as the waterfall, mightier than any manufactured fountain.

The muggy morning never failed to raise the plumes of blue;

the smoky fog of water lazily escaping dampened dirt.

I was allowed there as a visitor, and offered place to slumber,

but for all the richest greenery, I missed my yellowed fields.

I missed the great flat grassy plains, but more so missed my sisters,

my mother, father, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandmother.

I could not commit to mountains, fresh air, winding trails,

and yet with my mind made, my choice I still consider.

Could I have been happier in Cade’s Cove than my Hill Country?

Could I give up my prized Panhandle for Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge?

And could all the tempted black bears, who came to sample candy apples,

persuade my indecisive heart to leave the armadillos?

I have often thought my butterfly to be solely the Monarch,

but Swallowtail has given me much thought, lately.

The fireflies that swarmed the summer lit our night anew

twinkling there in the midst of us, tiny stars just within our reach.

As I rethink my hasty departure from the Smokey Mountains,

I question if they’d let me back, if only to steep in wonder.

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