The mountains taught us long ago
What richer lands forgot to know:
A stranger’s just a friend delayed,
Until they’ve shared the bread we’ve made.

The screen door groans, the kettle sings,
The porch swing hums on rusty springs.
No invitation need be sent—
You’re welcome here by providence.

The coffee’s strong, the biscuits warm,
We’ve weathered many a winter storm.
When fields ran thin and mines shut down,
We still passed plenty all around.

A mason jar of beans to spare,
A quilt, a coat, a whispered prayer.
The poorest hands still found a way
To give a little every day.

Old friends speak soft in mountain ways,
With stories stitched through bygone days.
A laugh can echo ridge to ridge,
Like creek water beneath the bridge.

We’ve buried fathers, mothers too,
Watched seasons fade and skies turn blue.
Yet shoulder leaned on shoulder still,
Like white oaks rooted in the hill.

No lock was turned till night grew late;
No child was told, “Don’t cross that gate.”
Each neighbor watched the others’ own,
As if each heart were partly home.

When sorrow climbed the holler road,
No soul was left to bear the load.
The casseroles arrived in line,
Along with hymns and borrowed time.

And when the harvest filled the land,
There’d always be another hand
To stack the hay or shell the corn
From dusk’s first star till break of morn.

So let the highways boast their speed,
And cities praise their wealth and greed.
I’ll take a porch where old friends wait,
A weathered fence, an open gate.

For mountains rise and rivers bend,
But greater still’s a faithful friend.
And every hearth where kindness starts
Keeps home in our hearts.