along the twist and the turn,
to a little graveyard at the end of a drive,
is a big red brick home,
onw graveyard sits there’s a sign,
sign says ‘Parish’,
that’s a family that fills the graveyard,
upon a little nob,
rest one body and circled in stones from the area,
sacred and mystical,
her name the lady who rests,
was Lily,
this isn’t any place,
this is someplace special,
this is Virginia,
magnolias hang down on the fence,
the fence is heavy black walnut wood,
meant to spend the time needed to guard the precious body resting upon this hill,
even the trees loved Lily,
she touched everything with her smile,
you’ve arrived at Walnut Hill,
back side of the Luray, Virginia,
people think of Luray Virginia as Shanandoah National Park,
The truth of it be Walnut Hill touches the Shenandoah,
The trees breathe the Appalachians in this farm DNA,
This hill ravaged by War several times has this over aura stronger than caves in Luray,
the farm stands its place and time,
Marked by the gracious lady that rest upon the hill,
a ghost touches the walls upon the hill within the house,
On clear days and nights sometime,
you can see Lily standing gracefully dressed in white with her spyglass looking out the window,
Lily had wanted to survive old age,
she was told by a friend no one survives old age,
that made her weep,
Lily was from a family of believers,
the believers inequality,
Loved Liberty and rights for women kind everywhere,
she was all girl except for those manly boots she wore whenever it got cold,
the house still sits on Walnut Hill,
I touched the fence,
I still recall looking into the cemetery in 2002,
I found the cement fence not far from the road that have been made 200 years ago my African labor,
treasures not seen don’t get destroyed,
The fence wasn’t made with slave labor,
everyone who worked on the farm with family,
there was hope for being a building a new home in the woods,
that wasn’t to be in all it was made was the fence,
I’ve seen it,
I said about it,
my spirit and heart still sit there,
right now I’m stuck in Iowa when my spirit is gone,
I will be in Wisconsin and I will be in Virginia,
and I live in my house the red brick ,
right dab in Virginia,
home of my family’s heart,
During the war three members of my family were in imprisoned in Andersonville,
Virginia blood runs deep,
prideful,
I might not see the red bug in the spring,
for the Laurel,
we have magnolia blossoms and pays your head,
and what a friend a sister tells me she sees the Appalachians every day I can close my eyes and I’m there,
I’m going to have a big old cup of tea and call to see if her sister is awake in Arizona then go back to sleep good night,
good night Doc,
footnote
To a sister of another mother Dr Jeanette Pillsbury formerly of Wisconsin Iowa now Virginia, long may she sail.
I need your address please.
Val Whitewolf 