The Old Ways
There are words the mountains whisper
When the moon is thin and white,
Spells that never found a paper,
Only carried through the night.
From a Granny bent with seasons,
Hands like bark on ancient pine,
Passing charms from tongue to memory,
Older than the church bell’s chime.
She said,
“Gather dew before the sunrise,
Leave no footprint in the frost.
Thank the creek before you drink it,
Or you’ll wander good as lost.”
So I walked the rhododendron,
With a hickory wand in hand,
Pocket full of iron horseshoes,
River clay and mountain sand.
Found a feather from a raven,
Three black stones beneath a beech,
Mixed them with the smoke of cedar—
Things no preacher dared to preach.
The forest answered softly,
Like a choir without a name.
Leaves bowed low to greet the stranger
Who remembered every flame.
Foxfire lit the hidden footpaths,
Trilliums bent without the breeze,
And the whippoorwill quit singing
As I spoke among the trees.
I learned the creek has hidden language,
Every ripple tells a tale.
One can call the rain by humming,
One can calm the fiercest gale.
Mist will hide a faithful traveler
If your heart is clean and true,
But the mountain knows a liar—
It remembers more than you.
I stitched the wind into a blanket
For a child with winter’s cough,
Hung rowan over cabin doorways,
Kept the hungry darkness off.
Marked the lintel with red ochre,
Burned sweet sage beside the fire;
Every ember held a promise,
Every spark a small desire.
Yet magic here is never master,
Never bent to greed or pride.
It walks beside the humble only,
Keeping quiet at their side.
Those who seek it just for power
Leave with nothing but their fear,
For the oldest spells in Appalachia
Only bloom when love is near.
Now the young folks call it folklore,
Old wives’ tales and country lies,
While they watch the glowing city
Fill the bottoms with its lights.
Still the ridges keep their secrets,
Still the owls know every name,
Still the mountains wake at midnight
Wrapped in emerald-colored flame.
And when my hair is white as dogwood,
When my hands are lined like stone,
I’ll pass the old words to another
By the hearth we’ve always known.
Not in books nor grand cathedrals,
Not where kings have made their mark—
But beside an Appalachian fire,
Where magic kindles in the dark.
