I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.

Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.

I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.

Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.

Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.

Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.

Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.

Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.

Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.

I hope you like it.