The morning mist still climbs the ridge
the way your prayers once climbed the dawn.
The whip-poor-will still calls my name,
though you’ve been gone so long.

Your apron hangs in memory’s hall,
its pockets full of seeds and grace.
I still can smell fresh biscuits warm,
and see the kindness in your face.

You taught me how to read the sky,
to know when rain was drawing near,
to gather strength from stubborn hills,
and never bow to doubt or fear.

The creek remembers every step
of barefoot summers by your side.
The dogwoods bloom because they know
the place where gentle spirits hide.

Sometimes when autumn paints the hills
with amber, crimson, rust, and gold,
I feel your hand upon my shoulder,
steady as the days of old.

The wind that sweeps through hemlock trees
still speaks with your familiar tone.
It tells me love outlives the flesh;
no child is ever left alone.

And when I climb these mountain paths,
where coal dust sleeps beneath the moss,
I see how life and death entwine,
how beauty blossoms out of loss.

So when my own day’s light grows dim,
and evening settles soft and slow,
I’ll find you where the ridges meet,
where mountain laurel flowers grow.

Until that hour, I’ll carry on,
the way you always taught me to—
With Appalachian grit and grace,
a faithful heart made strong by you.

For mothers never leave these hills.
They linger in the cedar’s sigh,
the church bells drifting through the holler,
the hawk that circles through the sky.

And every time I whisper, “Mom,”
the mountains answer, deep and true:
“Love is older than these ancient stones,
and it is waiting here with you.”

Happy Birthday, Mommy.