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Home Place Barbara Smith Appalachian Heritage, Volume 10, Number 4, Fall 1982, p. 10 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1982.0007 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/440262/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 22:35 GMT from JHU Libraries 3,> t, II I IM ///? He belongs there, For I know by looking into his eyes Exactly about his grandfather, Whose house it once was, Whose hands set the chain That draws the bucket of sweet mountain water, Whose feet wore away the first layer of clay Where now there's a path up the slope, Whose eyes looked past ripshin and teasel To the soft-swollen, round-shouldered hills That have always known his name, Whose bride wove the patterns still draped on the beds, Scrubbed with red knuckles the rippling floors, The funhouse glass ofthe windows, The pine-sappy knees of his father, Who also belonged, Those eyes, those life-searching eyes, being passed Generation to generation Through this ragged and beautiful house. — Barbara Smith http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Smith, Barbara, --
Appalachian Review , Volume 10 (4) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Barbara Smith Appalachian Heritage, Volume 10, Number 4, Fall 1982, p. 10 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1982.0007 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/440262/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 22:35 GMT from JHU Libraries 3,> t, II I IM ///? He belongs there, For I know by looking into his eyes Exactly about his grandfather, Whose house it once was, Whose hands set the chain That draws the bucket of sweet mountain water, Whose feet wore away the first layer of clay Where now there's a path up the slope, Whose eyes looked past ripshin and teasel To the soft-swollen, round-shouldered hills That have always known his name, Whose bride wove the patterns still draped on the beds, Scrubbed with red knuckles the rippling floors, The funhouse glass ofthe windows, The pine-sappy knees of his father, Who also belonged, Those eyes, those life-searching eyes, being passed Generation to generation Through this ragged and beautiful house. — Barbara Smith

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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