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.
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