a poem for the coal miner on interstate-79

mist hangs low in the Pennsylvania Valley

mountains stir, still sleeping, whispering soft lullabies

to the dew drops that cling to wind-cut grass and yellow clover

peaks of tin roofs and burnt-out barn gables

pierce the curtain and greet the orange sun at dawn

mountains roll, lolling their tongues like old dogs

ancient, gentle things that live between the trees of the Alleghenies

deep in Appalachia

old beasts sleep like giants

their hunched backs rounded

with the weight of geological time

soot stains caking their feet and fingers curled around a chisel

down from the road the hollers wave

their white flags and the railways weaves a path with the river

bridges loom like iron sutures, stapling land

and roads over brackish water, brown rivers

the sun rises again

turning yesterday’s puddles into rainbows

a mirage of metaphors for blue collar magic

cradled in the asphalt like forgotten dreams

red lights flicker and for the first time I wish

I wasn’t so alone, just to not be at the Texaco before dawn

it is a strange but human magic

to make mundanity absurd

to whisper starlight into the shadows of tall trees

and weave streetlight into gold threads to suture days closed with

a testament of memory, halcyon destiny

we sweep prayers like soot into the pail

and offer it to sleeping beasts at dawn

coal miner’s never stutter when their hands are clasped in prayer