Hiawassee Poem by Shirley Anne Alexander

Cherokee poets named this place Meadow.
People wonder why. It is not a flat garden,
but a curved valley of green and waters.
See how the Blue Ridge surrounds.

Mountain locals know they are in foothills.
This is the beginning; snake roads and
homemade music, where hills meet clouds
in a perfect moist and lingering kiss.

This land is where a virgin Mother Earth
first becomes aware; bulges with pride,
and pushes new breasts toward heaven
to tickle and tease an azure Georgia sky.