Nantahala

Nantahala When the mountains found religion They made the Nantahala Basin their cathedral, Lifted up the crystal sky as a vaulted ceiling, Supported it with mighty columns of poplar And chestnut, and walled it all in with steep towers Of granite around a black-earth floor. When the mountains found religion They made a high windswept gap their pulpit And the waters climbed up, looked out over The congregation, and the river preached its sermon. It started with an invocation, whispering reverently Under stunted sugar maple and cedar of how The mountains were born, high and snowy, jagged And silent, and of how they grew old, clothed themselves In an emerald cloak, and bowed down to the punishing Tempests of wind and rain. And the river preached on, Roaring now over foaming waterfalls and through a desolate gorge, speaking of blasphemy and damnation. Of how They came from the East with their steel and smoke and Sound, invaded the sanctuary of bear and bobcat, of robin And wren, and cut the mighty columns away from the black-earth Floor. They crashed from the crystal sky with painful cries While the sinners marched ever-upward to the pulpit, sending Ancient giants down narrow railroads and riding torrents of Water to the valley, just to become a desk, a bedframe, Or a home. The river stopped preaching for a moment and Gathered itself up in a lake, a moment of prayer for How the cathedral sat open in vacant silence—empty, dead, Destroyed. Then the river led a hymn, a song of hope, of how The forests came back, healed the scars of saw and ax, and thrust The mighty columns up once more to the sky that still remained. And the congregation came back and joined the hymn, singing loudly, this time joined by man who was eager to listen. And he did while the river, as always, preached on. —Wally Smith 100 ...