Appalachia, Where Are Your Hills?

Thank God for the mantling snow He sends to caress the ravaged hills. It covers the smell of the slag heap burning, it hides the scars that mar the mountains, and makes a shroud for murdered trees. I wish the snow would never stop.

Once, long ago (or was it yesterday?) the mountains were like nurseries for the creeks and the young rivers. They were rich in green-gold bounty and strong with wide black bones. They held and nourished many people.

Now my people sit, slack-handed, from chill, dark dawn to hopeless night. They sit, dreamless and patient, waiting for a sedative sleep to come riding down on the snowfall— I pray the snow will never stop.