THE ARTISAN in the HILLS

She is steeped in the Smoky Mountains,

tucked in the bodice of Appalachia,

under the spidery arms of pines and firs

stoically linked together to form a jade lace



I saw her in a craft shop,

surrounded by shelves heaving with her creations,

the ceramics and pottery willed into pieces of art

as distinctive as the carpet of fallen leaves

matting the floor of the hills



This artisan sat at the rear of the shop,

her wistful fingers nodding and prodding

the pliant canvas of clay.

As she worked, her long silver hair

framed her fiftyish face

and highlighted her beatific smile

that absently crossed her face

like a breeze sweeping the desert sand.



A lilting Nancy Griffifth ballad drifted through the shop

as effortlessly as incense, and while she worked

she hummed along with its sanguine cadence

absorbed in her own sublime universe,

snippets of sunlight pinging off the enamel skin

of the pots and vases, like opaque knats.



And as I studied this sketch of creative serenity

I envied her life in the back of the shop

tucked in the green bodice of Appalachia