On a mountainside in Appalachia,
The fields were pretty and green,
It was summertime on the Poor Fork,
And the reddest strawberries I’d ever seen.

I enjoyed picking strawberries
In the field above Looney Creek,
Tagging along with Grandad
Across from Pine Mountain’s rugged peaks.

We’d take the strawberries to Gran,
Whose baking was a work of art,
Everything done from scratch,
And her artistry a bit tart. 

The best taste this side of heaven,
Gran’s strawberry rhubarb pie,
The smell could linger for miles
And a taste one couldn’t deny. 

Much love went into baking
This delicious mountain treat,
With many special memories
And always something good to eat.