For a Frozen Winter Morning

First Light...

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

Standing in the kitchen in the early morning darkness,
I look through dew-wet windows over the sink,
And take my first look at the day before me.
The moon is resting on the western horizon,
Waiting for the first signs of the sun,
So she can lay down and rest for a bit.
She’s gotta work again tonight you know.
And these winter nights are long and cold.
She lights the land with a light so pale,
That there really are no colors.
Only shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

I smell the breath of coffee now and pour myself a cup.
A scalding sip, like a blistering kiss, makes my eyes fly open.
I cross the room and take a seat, opposite the window,
Pulling a blanket around me, I listen to the silence.
The faint tick of the clock, a rooster in the distance,
The rhythmic sound of a cat’s breath,
As it sleeps on the back of the couch behind me.
The reflection of fire from my cigarette,
Glows back at me from my image in the window.
A ghostly image of loneliness,
In shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

The morning light is slipping in, as images get clearer.
Fence posts, once invisible, begin to appear one by one,
As they reach for the road in the distance.
The sleeping humps of resting beef, slowly find their feet,
As little mouths fill themselves beneath their mother’s bellies.
The blanket of frost across their backs looks gray,
From its mirror on the sleeping pond.
Fields, farms and hills slowly come into view,
As the sun paints the countryside with her brush of new colors.
A palette of pale greens, browns and whites,
Pushes out shades of grays and blacks.

Finally it is done, the moon has been relieved and gone to bed.
The sun takes her post and begins her watch.
Under her warm gaze, I do what must be done.
I shake the blanket from my shoulders and rise.
This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…




Copyright © 2007WML

Stolen Heritage

Mountains destroyed
Hills laid low
Torn open to its heart.
Heart of the mountain
Ancient root of life
Precious black coal
Ripped from the depths
Broken and crushed
Moved, trucked and taken
From the hills of home
To power plants, factories
And homes distant
From our mountains.
The rubble, discard and ruins
Thrown down
Tumbled to the valley
Crushing and filling the hollers
With no thought
Of the beauty below
Or of ancestral homes.
Much less the sacred graves
Of those who ventured
As wayfarers
In a new land.
Appalachian pilgrims,
Pioneers forgotten.
Buried alongside
The primrose, sassafras
Honeysuckle, magnolia and sourwood.
All as if they were flowers
Forgotten at the grave
Cast off and buried
In the rubble
Of questionable progress.
Cry, Oh Appalachia
Weep oh hills and hollers.
Mourn what we have lost
Gnash your teeth
That we have allowed
Strangers
To buy,
To steal our heritage
For the sake
Of coal.