Upon the ridge where moonlight clung,
Like cobweb lace on pine trees hung,
I wandered where the laurel sighed
And ancient hollows sought to hide.
The whippoorwill, with mournful tongue,
Sang dirges never fully sung;
Its lonely cry through hemlocks wound
Like grief that would not stay in ground.
The mountains wore their midnight shroud,
A congregation dark and bowed,
While every oak, with twisted hand,
Pointed toward some forgotten land.
The creek, once bright with silver gleam,
Now whispered like a fevered dream.
Its waters bore no stars that night—
They swallowed every trace of light.
There stood a cabin, frail and gray,
Where time itself had rotted away.
No hearth-fire breathed, no window shone,
Yet still I heard a voice alone.
It called my name with tender grace,
As though it wore my mother’s face.
But deep within its honeyed tone
Lay all the chill of weathered stone.
I crossed the porch of sagging pine;
The air grew thick with mold and thyme.
Each floorboard groaned beneath my tread,
As though it mourned the buried dead.
The walls were lined with coal-black dust,
With faded hymns consumed by rust.
A Bible lay with pages torn,
Its hopeful verses weather-worn.
Then from the chimney, cold and wide,
There came a breath no flame could hide.
A shadow, shaped like mountain smoke,
Rose slowly from the soot it broke.
Its eyes were neither red nor gold,
But empty pits of winter cold.
Its form was stitched from raven’s wing
And every grief the hills could sing.
It spoke no curse, it spoke no threat;
It asked one question only yet:
“Who keeps the names when all depart?
Who tends the mountain’s broken heart?”
I answered not, for none could tell
What secret in those ridges dwell.
The mines had taken bone and breath;
The floods had carved the face of death.
The children sought the distant plain,
The old remained with loss and rain.
Each weathered porch became a throne
For ghosts who feared to die alone.
The specter smiled—a dreadful sight—
As dawn dissolved the edge of night.
It vanished in the morning mist,
Like something Heaven had dismissed.
Yet still, when autumn leaves are strewn
Beneath a pale October moon,
I hear that whisper through the pines
Where fog embraces ancient mines.
The whippoorwill resumes its plea;
The creek forgets to mirror me.
And every ridge, both stern and wise,
Conceals a thousand sleepless eyes.
So should you roam those hills at last,
Where every shadow guards the past,
Speak softly to the wind-worn stone—
For Appalachia keeps its own.
And if one night your name is known
By voices older than your own,
Turn not toward that gentle call…
Lest you remain among them all.
