Don West Poem of the Day, #3

Don West was a man deeply aware of his roots, both in terms of his family and the Appalachian mountains he came from and loved. This poem is a beautiful tribute to both, and it still gives me goosebumps everytime I read it.

Funeral Notes

We're burying part of him today
In Hickory-Grove Church Yard.
We can't put him all here,
For his grave
Spreads over a few rocky acres
That he loved-
Where peach blossoms bloom, and
Cotton stalks speckle the ground
On a Georgia hill.

Forty years he's been digging
And plowing himself under
Along these cotton rows.
Most of my Dad is there
Where the grass grows
And cockle-burrs bristle
Now that he's gone...

We're covering him in March days
When seeds sprout.
And I think next Autumn
At picking time
The white-speckled stalks
Will be my old Dad
Bursting out...