My Name is West Virginia

When I asked my three-years old grandson if he knew my name, he answered without hesitation: “West Virginia.”

“No,” I said. “Grammy’s name is Karen.”

“West Virginia,” he said with a smile. “You are West Virginia.”

I am dirt road hollers

and creeks without bridges,

glowing piles of coal

and coal black, lumbering bears.

I am Black-eyed Susans

and sticky, silky Milkweed,

swelling and bursting

in Autumn scented air.

I am whispered family secrets,

kisses beneath windows,

blanket-covered porch swings

and promises made there.

I am born of revolutions

and wars against my brothers;

I am apple faced women

and men who try and dare.

I am pinto bean weekdays

with iron skillet cornbread;

I am fried chicken Sundays

and sweet'ning if you choose.

I am Onward, Christian Soldiers,

on prayer meeting Wednesdays,

embossed zippered Bibles

and patent leather shoes.

I am Mother Jones marches,

the passing of the torches,

and American dreams

that somehow do come true.

I’m the boys from the coal mines

and the girls who learned to write lines.

I am West Virginia -

a majestic mountain Muse.