Coal Children

Coal Children

“Lean a little closer,” I heard a voice say,

As I sat on my rotting porch one sunny day.

“Can’t you see it?” asked the voice within my soul,

Some secret it held as it pointed at the coal.

It lifted its bony finger as if a dried twig,

Pointing at the youngsters those made to dig.

On slopes of the black diamond spillways they bent,

Working their hardest seldom making a dent.

“There’s more to see,” the whisper impressed,

Urging me to see what it saw, children dirty but blessed.

I watched for some time their fingers rough and worn,

But through their tears some wished they weren’t born.

I communed with this spirit, this image in my head,

Tugging my thoughts to see the living and the dead.

In the coal fields of Appalachia never let it be said,

That honor only lingered moments and hard work was dead.

It was in this setting, this hearing, this seeing,

That the spirit drew my attention to another being.

An image, a vapor, a mirage I could’ve sworn,

Were merely hearts of coal children, abused and scorned.

“Why should I see this?” I asked while reminiscing,

Wondering in my mind what things I was missing.

“Come stand here,” insisted the voice once more,

As It opened my heart to feel the sorrows they bore.