Mountain Mud

Mountain mud on my tires
Remind me too much of home.
Just back again, settled in
When old red mud
Seems to whisper to me...
"Go home, go home"

Forgotten Road.

Rain doves coo softly as they march up and down
The old clay road that leads back the holler
Their path is sometimes altered as they weave
In and out of the hateful tufts of grass that grows
Unhindered now in the middle of the road.
Their heads bob up and down again
As they harvest seeds from the grass
Cars no longer travel the road often.
Seldom, really. The road is un-needed
Un-heeded, unkempt and overgrown.
Occasionally traveled by family come
To lay flowers on moss covered stones
And monuments to pioneer mountain men
Dutiful mountain mamas, near forgotten
Weeds grown over them,
Like the old dusty road.

Breakin' Beans

Worn hands reach mechanically
Into a beat up tin pan
Grabbing a handful of green beans
Taking one after another
Between skilled fingers
To string, break, drop
Into a waiting pan.
String, break, drop
String, break, drop
As the old woman sits
Quietly working as she swings
In her porch swing,
Listening to the National Barn Dance
On her big ol' Philco radio.