Where ridges rise like weathered prayers,
And morning clings in silver mist,
The rivers carry whispered names
On currents memory has kissed.

Old tipples rust beneath the vines,
Their labors swallowed leaf by leaf;
The hills remember every hand
That carved out hope from coal and grief.

Porches lean beneath the stars,
Their stories older than the pines;
Each rocking chair a testament
To stubborn hearts and harder times.

Church bells drift through narrow hollows,
Calling souls by faith, not fame.
Voices join in humble hymns,
Though every singer bears a scarred name.

Children skip flat stones on creeks
Where crawdads hide beneath the shale,
Learning every bend and bank
Like chapters in a family tale.

The autumn paints the mountains gold,
While winter wraps them deep in white;
Spring awakens dogwood blooms,
And summer hums with firefly light.

Some folks leave beyond the hills,
To chase horizons broad and bright;
Yet something in the mountain wind
Still calls them softly every night.

For roots grow deep where hardship lives,
And love takes hold in stubborn clay.
The land may bend beneath its burdens,
But never gives its soul away.

So if you wander winding roads
Where fog embraces dawn’s first glow,
You’ll find a people mountain-made—
Strong as the streams that never slow.

Their wealth was measured not in gold,
Though richer treasures once were mined;
But in the grit of calloused hands,
And hearts no hardship could unwind.

The mountains keep their secrets well,
Yet one they’ll gladly let you see:
That home is more than earth and stone—
It’s who you’ve been, and who you’ll be.