"This Mountain"

This mountain rises on an ancient hymn,
Chattoogan melodies.
The Appalachia is its misty den;
with garments, living trees.

Yunega yanu sings with innocence
the lost sanigiala ‘gi;
While choral crickets join with confidence—
cicada’s symphony.

And as the song continues on the rock
there’s brisk ascending mist,
Which hovers over cypress and hemlock
as I so long have wished.

This frisking fog attaches to the hills
and populates ‘tween trees;
This muslin on these weary summer stills
is active in the breeze.

This watershed beneath my trepid feet
sans dampened clouds would dry;
And as the song might fetter in defeat;
would hum a lullaby.

Now promenading at the mountains base
by iron weed and golden rod
I raise my ardent heart to join praise
from footstool to the throne of God.

by Wm. Rieppe Moore