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Our old mountain songs come from
women who have always worked.
We hear their lyrics settle
the tendons of our shoulders.
The songs say here’s how to pick
tea: lift two leaves and a bud
with loud hands and a sweet throat;
remember where we might go.
The songs say here’s how to hawk
what you’ve taken from the hills:
louder than hands and sweeter
than throat, far and farther still.
The work will always be there:
Mulberry leaves for silkworms,
Chestnuts for the snuffling boars,
Lemongrass cut in the rain.
The songs will always be there:
Our tea picking tunes passed from
land to throat to throat to hand.
Our work, our songs, our damned days.
Our old mountain songs come with
women who move away from
the mountains still; we hear our
hills that now dwell in our hands.