Before my sister passed away from breast cancer in 2005, she wrote this poem about my brother:
APPALACHIAN RING
Just when I was free, you alone called it three,
so I dropped my dry guard, dragged your hand down
our yard to relate to you
what I could see.
Would you thwart all the rifles and swing on barn doors?
Let my soles tap grace while we shatter all rules,
figure me an ink fiddle, teach me your blue glass songs.
We’ll wake up all those lads who were schooled way too long.
Won’t you reach for my ma, draw her tune to the light?
Over shy leaf-borne hills
let gold showers ignite all the thread she has woven,
the words that have slid from the page of her lips
to create your sole bid.
For the father and mother of nature can bind—
Or rend—all lone creatures, depending on kind.
Just when I was free, you alone called it three,
so I dropped my dry guard, dragged your hand down
our yard to relate to you
what I could see.
Would you thwart all the rifles and swing on barn doors?
Let my soles tap grace while we shatter all rules,
figure me an ink fiddle, teach me your blue glass songs.
We’ll wake up all those lads who were schooled way too long.
Won’t you reach for my ma, draw her tune to the light?
Over shy leaf-borne hills
let gold showers ignite all the thread she has woven,
the words that have slid from the page of her lips
to create your sole bid.
For the father and mother of nature can bind—
Or rend—all lone creatures, depending on kind.
~Patricia Taylor-Jones (1950-2005)
Geez, I miss her so much.
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