Home is where the heart is,
They say,
But to me that is just not true,
Home is where the spirit lies quiet,
Sitting contently in a gentle stupor.

I pack my bags,
To travel south,
To visit where my soul will lie quiet and still,
Where the people are full of life and the land is quiet,
Nestled in Appalachian mountains and hills.

It is a land that borders near-untained wilderness,
An hours drive from anywhere truly uprooted by man,
Where the morning's sun is greeted by smoke-like pillars,
That billow up from the mountains ascents.

It is a land of shine and fiddles,
Of guitars, trucks and barns.
Where your neighbor is your cousin,
His neighbor is their brother,
And his neighbor is his Ma and Pa.

It's a land of quiet reflection,
Far removed from the roar of highways and cities,
Where if the world were to end,
It would take weeks to know,
And would be bo real loss in the end.

The people are hard,
But gentle at the same time,
Always willing to give a helping hand,
They have tales to tell if you've got the time,
I recommend bending your ear and listen.

It's mountains are steep and treacherous,
Infested with snakes, ticks, and venomous spiders galore,
But watch your step, make the ascent,
And it's views are worth the trouble.

The food there is genuine,
Made with love and care,
Whilst simple it makes its taste so much more true,
If you aren't careful you'll gain 30 pounds,
On this hearty holler food.

And the sky,
Oh the sky,
May be my favorite part of all,
The bluest blues,
The whitest whites,
It's sunsets a tear inducing menagerie of reds purples, pinks, yellows, and golden hues.

As the last bag is packed, and my car is gassed,
I ache for my spirits home already,
For it is someplace I can never visit often enough,
A place where I am most lackadaisical and happy.

For in the hollers loving embrace I am sheltered from the pollution and dread of man,
Where for but a fleeting moment,
Frozen in time,
I can feel like a kid again.