legacy

The thread runs
from an Appalachian home
framed by golden poplars.

The thread loops
through the Matheson Cove,
climbs Shew Bird Mountain

riding the wind with mountain laurel.
Whippoorwills ricochet in the holler,
Hyatt’s Mill Creek whispers my name.

The thread zigzags
through the corn patch
Granddaddy Bob plowed with mules.

The thread dashes
milk Ma Ledford churned
into butter golden as sunflowers.

The thread plucks fruit
from trees bowing to the ground
and fries peach pies.

The thread gallops
through generations selecting genes,
stitching them together

thread by thread
like Mama piecing
a Lone Star quilt.

 

brenda kay ledford