She rose ‘fore dawn, that maiden fair,
to till the ground and children raise,
to mend their cloth and bring in hay,
to tend the herd and cook a hare.
She held the hills upon her frame
while men arose and went to war,
while roof leaked, rotted to the core.
She tried to patch—then message came—
Many townsmen, like hers, refrained
to return; some did, in box of pine.
Few that remained, as she, in time
grew gray, their pride through pain retained.
As tale ends, she found another,
like-minded, lean and loved in heart,
they two conjoined to never part.
Today he rests ‘pon hills with her,
With all their children at their feet;
as such, they’re seen each autumn morn
in daylight’s sheen, their form reborn,
and still upon the mountains meet.
Eric M. Vogt