You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills, spirits of Cherokee in
Appalachia's olden heart and veins,
Scots-Irish influence of beloved bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind,
your grandmother's white farmhouse,
she fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco,
and loved the Lord.
Your childhood wasn't blessed,
you had to leave in your youth,
to another southern state of beauty,
where we met, we wed, weren't wealthy,
yet, our daughter is our glory,
son-in-law, and grandchildren gifts
she gave us,
we returned to your birthplace
then you passed, not quite elderly,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly.
Copyright © Regina Elliott | Year Posted 2021
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