Hidden in the thickets of cedar, pine, and weeping willows
the old cabin patched with make-do siding and leftover windows.
The tin roof shines when the sun comes peering through the clouds
but in the mountain rains the roof chatters telling tales out loud.
Old wives’ tales crackin’ a smile like peppercorns in the stew
and shared recipes of the perfect buttermilk biscuits, cornbread too.
Sewing swatches together for a warm patchwork quilt,
stitching a ruffle to a too-short dress not wasted to clean up silt.
Though legends speak of the cry heard of a mother with her stillborn,
years to follow the midwife’s hallelujah cries for four healthy newborns.
There are fishing and bull frogging tales longer than PaPa’s legs
and the neighbor’s filly jumpin’ the six-foot tall fence pegs.
The eight-point buck’s head mounted over the stone fireplace mantel,
venison pot pie at the dinner table while hungry children quiet their tattle.
Porch gossip of a jilted love affair with a soldier gone away
and who’s passed the smallpox onto the poor clan down the way.
If listened close enough as the summer rain pitters and patters,
The tin roof chatter echoes our own stories, real heart matters.