I’m finding the words easy in mind,
but hard to write down.
I savor every one
the way I savor shuck beans.
A meal that takes months to enjoy for mere minutes.
I collect them in a natural bouquet,
with the arrangement wild and as close to mind as they can be
and imitate how the goldenrods look under peach skies.
Sometime after the last of the dandelions
(I know this because their syrup has long been gone)
on an apple-crisp autumn day, like that of the food of the gods,
I return to the hills with great company:
a musician, a singer, a poet.
Each constructed art about the land.
Yet here I stand,
collecting the flowers they don’t know they drop.
My friends, it’s all about you.
The bard’s melodies have been constant,
like a rooster with its morning crow.
A familiar and welcomed tune,
the way a mamaw loves more than the moon and stars.
He knows his work and plays his part
the same way an acorn knows to fall and grow,
and it is that which is beautiful.
Yes, I too hear the sound of Appalachia:
Its deep bass,
its foggy fiddles.
I am from such a clef; it has set my rhythm.
But to hear the musician play it,
to see him read it by sight,
(fewer words than action)
that is what is beautiful.
The ironweed I collect,
for it is all about you.
The songbird raises her voice,
like plantin’ on a wasper’s sting.
Talent and heart, a tincture most potent.
She used it to heal, and serve, and share with the ill like me.
Like the morning dew
or the honeysuckle on the air,
the tune is thick and stays long after seasons end.
And it is that which is beautiful.
Yes, I too am familiar with the way in which the people of the hills sing,
I am not one of them, but I am of them.
My history is sung with clear intonation
and sung in shapes—those of blue jay and dove,
but to hear the singer belt,
with more words in tune to the bard,
that is what is beautiful.
The clematis I collect,
for it is all about you.
And my fellow poet—
If a fellow is what I can call you.
Neither from here nor from far away,
Your words betray both.
For you are familiar with every rock, flower, and fern.
You have taken this day too—
and split the profit happily to craft an ode to Appalachia and let it root deep.
This, to me, is like the ginger bug that treats homesickness.
And that is what is beautiful.
Yes, I too am familiar with the way in which these mountains write for themselves.
My tradition is here,
My people are here,
My home.
But to see the poet’s work,
with more words and action than I,
that is what is beautiful.
The polypody I collect,
for it is all about you.
Lucas Bargo is from London, KY, and has always enjoyed being outside and admiring the craftsmanship of it. He attends UC as a double major in English and Christian Studies.
Pensworth 