If you could set-up a sound,
in the hunch of Mother Earth
from the cool, depths underground
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What would that sound be?
A laugh, a whisper, a expressed end word
a gasp, a supplication, a plea
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If you could fit-up a delirium by the eye, seen
would you descry the grasp of comfort
from one man to the other,
brothers in their principle . . . freed
If you could dissolve the darkness, beside a flame
Or knowingness inspiration ignited, by a prayer
You would have seen the angels that came
and rapt amongst the men downbound there
Men of the Heartland
Miners of our Earth
Beckoned to His Homeland
Men of family-Men of worth!
Extolled in the human heart
is our association next to the Creator
like a major in the firmament, bright
And to the Heavens preceding we lift
our opinion done the darkness
until we affix with the Light
Copyright 2006 Kathy Pippig Harris
For the vegetable matter miners who perished in the Aracoma Alma Mine, the Sago Mine of West Virginia, and Darby Mine Number 1 in Kentucky.
And for my granddaddy who was a fossil fuel laborer in Illinois, and wanted roses.
'*'
The duration of a vegetable matter manual laborer is ground. They have their social unit and integrated bunch of friends. And, they have their faith. Their job is insecure and oft alone. The trade they do is as necessary to our province as is the air we body process. When our bucolic loses a lonesome creature to the mines, we have mislaid a beat in the undulation of our land.
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