My Mountain Mama
by Brandon Pickrell
My Mountain Mama, if you saw her,
Curves like the Kanawha and shimmers like the holler.
She wears gowns of blue, and gold, and white, and green,
And the darkest hues of ashy coal
Which many keep as curse and creed.
My Mountain mama sings high upon the rolling hills,
And is heard by all the children, rolling in the daffodils.
And is heard by the miner, as he ascends from depths beneath:
A sweet song of simple tidings to offer him relief.
My Mountain Mama blooms in early May
Rhododendrons without delay,
And gardens bluebells or goldenrod,
From Boone to Dolly Sods.
My Mountain Mama tends to the broken cardinal’s wing,
In late December as snow falls upon the plain,
And renewed it soars and chirps all day,
With finches, robins, and blue jays.
My Mountain Mama weeps for her home,
Which has been exploited and overthrown,
By the greed of corporate’s dollar
Which oppresses men of any collar.
But My Mountain Mama’s tender hands,
Quell the anguish of young and old,
How majestic and how grand,
Sing the patronage of our fold.
Clean the coop and plow the field,
Under the guise of dusty night,
And peer upon that painted sky:
Mountain Mama, a star so bright.
