Appalachian Heritage

YOU MUST LEAVE THE OLD FRAME HOUSE You must leave the old frame house, Its timbers rotting, its stone rest cracking. You must leave it behind and not dwell On yesterday. You are a child no more; Do not rest on past remembrances. Do not take your food from depleted gardens Nor drink from stagnant wells. The breezes of that valley will not cool you now; The richness of that feast will not sustain you. The hands which wearied and worked and loved for you— They are gone; they are exhausted From the harvest of winter corn And the unyielding demands of spring and summer. They laid up for you sufficient stores For the lean winters, And fed you with sound food, And clothed you decently, And kept you learning, And even added a song to make the night-time seem Less fearsome, the storm a fleeting enemy, And gave you of their own immortal values. They have sung and laughed and wept And you did not see the dreariness Of this low dwelling. But they are here No more. Look in finaltude. But see it now. Regret not that you shall never see Look at the spent house Another such daffodil upon a table, And broken oaks. That you shall no longer Eat and feed upon the richness of this land. The time has gone. But there is a present Of your own daffodils and spreading oaks, Of your own gardens and harvests. You must say farewell And step upon the ship And travel to other lands And sing your own songs And be the strong one Who yourself invites The hungry into your own clean-scrubbed kitchen And feeds them honey and rich sweetcakes of your making. It is your lime. You must leave the old frame house. —Barbara Deatherage 24 ...