Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.
The mountains sing their history-- of when they knew only tranquility in the land of their ancient salt seas, when the sun could not touch them, when they were virgin still-- safe from the rough hands of the wind, long before the rise of humanity.
Their song holds the rhythms, the bars, the layers of the time before-- before an angry molten core, containing not a single drop of mercy, drove them from their ancient, peaceful home, forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom of sun and wind.
Their song holds the rhythms of all they grieve in witnessing humanity’s rise, dripping in eternal inhumanity.
At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs, nourished by snow melt tears, bow their heads and dance in the rhythms of the mountains’ song— A dance of homage to such ancient ones.
Spring threatens to melt into us.
Summer follows soon enough.
Birds will return, seeking seeds and worms,
Building nests for the young to come.
Will the birds remember the songs they sing?
Songs of summer, songs to mate?
Flowers will emerge, warming their petals
And leaves under a brilliant sun.
Will they remember how to open
Their blossoms?
Will they remember how to dress themselves
In glorious color?
How can the birds or flowers remember
When the world walks a tightrope
Over the abyss
And sunflowers may never grow again
Tall enough to bow their heavy heads to God?
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 