Pop's Death

He died so many years from old Blue Ridge That all we knew of roots were faded names Renewed in happy tales and banjo songs He carried with him through the narrowing plots. His vision went from horse and buggy youth, Brush harbored preachers and a one room school, From hard work started early on the farm To satellites and men upon the moon. He ran away, a boy to be a clown And brought a ready humor down to us. He was proud and self-sufficient man Who loved to fish and caught a host of friends. Five generations, father down to son, A ministry had gone; he was its last. He claimed a pact with God had made him preach And proved it living purer than his words. We watched the vacant temple through our tears Because there is no place to place a love That final, and because we cannot know The secret dreams denied to let us dream.